


The Art Of Seduction: A Study In Pulling

by flawedamythyst



Series: The Art Of Seduction [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-13
Updated: 2011-12-13
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:39:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sherlock ran a website called The Science Of Seduction, on which he gave advice on the best ways to get laid, wrote blog entries detailing the results of his various sexual 'experiments' and generally contributed to the stereotype of 'every gay man is a sex-mad playboy'. John avoided the thing like the plague.</i><br/>AU in which Sherlock treats sex like he does crime in canon. Inspired by Queer As Folk UK, but it very quickly went its own way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art Of Seduction: A Study In Pulling

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** Unhealthy attitudes towards sex and an over-reliance on Wikipedia.  
>  **Disclaimer:** Sherlock's opinions of women and heterosexuality are not mine. John's opinions on new-Doctor Who and David Tennant are not mine.

The bass from the club was clearly audible in the street and John found himself still twitching to it as he tried to hail a taxi. He'd had a bit more to drink than he usually did and spent a good couple of hours dancing with a man with an eyebrow piercing, who'd been happy enough to take all the drinks John had bought him, but had buggered off when it came to going-home-and-getting-off time. Typical.

“Can I share a cab with you?” asked Greg from behind him and John turned to give him a grin.

“Of course,” he said. “How was the muscle-bound stud?” Greg had been heading for the toilets with a bloke who clearly spent too much time in the gym last time John had seen him.

Greg rolled his eyes. “In a hurry,” he said. “Where's Sherlock?”

“Where do you think?” asked John, nodding over at where Sherlock had tonight's conquest backed up against a wall, one hand delving into his trousers as he kissed him.

Greg spared him a glance and then made a face. “One day I'll arrest him for public indecency,” he said.

“You're not on duty,” Sherlock reminded him, pulling away from the man's desperate grip and heading over to join them. The man – brown, floppy hair and a glazed, awed look in his eyes that John recognised all too well – followed behind him. _Christ, and he hasn't even fucked him yet,_ thought John.

Sherlock managed to get a cab on his first attempt, of course, and then there was a silent but fierce tussle between John and Greg over who had to share the backseat with Sherlock and Floppy Hair's rather enthusiastic foreplay. John lost, and spent the journey to Greg's and then back to Baker Street staring fixedly out of the window and trying to ignore the tiny moans coming from Floppy Hair.

Sherlock fled the taxi as soon as it came to a stop, taking Floppy Hair straight to his room and leaving John to pay the driver. John gave him a decent-sized tip in order to compensate for the emotional distress of having to watch Sherlock in action, then headed up to his own room, trying to ignore the mental pictures that the noises coming from Sherlock's room summoned up. Another night out that ended with a quick wank rather than a proper shag. Maybe Harry was right, and he was getting too old for this game.

 

****

 

Floppy Hair was sleeping on the sofa when John came downstairs the next morning. Sherlock never let the men he brought home stay in his room once he was done with them. John ignored him in favour of making tea and putting on some toast. He came down to find strange men on the sofa more often than he didn't and after the first couple of weeks of living with Sherlock, he'd learnt to just put up with it. They never stayed long, at any rate.

There was movement from the bundle of blankets when John got up to make his second cup of tea. Floppy Hair sat up slowly, rubbing at his face.

“Good morning,” said John and got a rather blank look in response. The guy looked as if he'd been hit by a lorry, something bowled over and slightly disbelieving in his eyes. For the thousandth time, John wondered just what it was that Sherlock did that always made them look like that the next morning.

“Can I have one of those?” asked Floppy Hair in a rough voice, nodding at John's tea.

For some reason, they always expected to share his bloody tea. John pinned on a smile. “Of course,” he said, getting out another cup.

By the time Sherlock appeared, they'd made enough awkward small talk for John to find out that Floppy Hair's name was actually Richard and that he worked in the City, whatever that meant these days. Sherlock made his usual dramatic entrance, his dressing gown swirling around him, and Richard fell silent in order to stare at him.

“John, tea,” Sherlock demanded and John scowled at him.

“Try again, but this time add 'please',” he said.

“It's too early for manners,” said Sherlock, throwing himself into a chair. “Tea is required before I can be bothered with any of that rubbish, you know that.”

“You can't be bothered with manners at any time of day,” John pointed out, but he stood up and started making Sherlock's damned tea anyway, as they'd both known he would.

“Good morning,” said Richard to Sherlock, every inch of him blazing with hero worship.

Sherlock glanced at him with a frown. “What are you still doing here?” he asked.

John sighed. “Sherlock,” he said tiredly, wishing he'd stayed in bed for another couple of hours so that he could have skipped this part. Watching Sherlock be horribly rude to men he'd been all over the night before never got any less painful.

“I was going to-” started Richard, then Sherlock ran a casual hand through his hair and he stopped speaking in order to stare at him for a moment, apparently transfixed by the angle of his wrist. “Well, that is,” he tried again, “I wondered if you'd like to go for a drink?”

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “Far too early in the day to go out.”

“No, I meant-” said Richard but it was too late, he'd lost whatever tiny fraction of attention that Sherlock could be bothered to spare him.

Sherlock stood up. “I'm going to shower, John. Bring my tea to the bathroom when it's ready. And get rid of him, would you? He's cluttering up the sitting room.” He swept out of the room in the direction of the bathroom and John glared after him, then turned to Richard, who looked crushed.

“I'm sorry,” John said, trying to be gentle. “He's sort of an utter bastard, you see.”

Richard looked at him with a glare. “He's not a bastard,” he said. “He's amazing.” He pulled on his clothes with sharp, angry movements. “You're just far too _dull_ to understand him,” he added scathingly, then flounced out of the flat, still doing up his shirt as he went. John sent a rude gesture after him. Just what the world needed, another Sherlock fanboy.

 

****

 

“I don't get it,” he said to Greg that night, having a drink in Angelo's and waiting for Sherlock to finally turn up. “He uses them then chucks them away, and is usually horrifically rude to them along the way, and yet I'm always the one they end up hating. How does that even work?”

Greg shrugged vaguely. “It's the Sherlock effect, isn't it?” he said. “He sleeps with everyone – well, every bloke who's even a little bit gay, anyway - and he's always, always their best ever shag – the one they spend the rest of their lives trying to match. It's hard to hate him when they're still under the influence of that, no matter how much of a git he is.”

“No one's that good,” protested John.

Greg's beer paused midway to his lips and he stared at John incredulously. “You haven't slept with him?”

“You know I haven't,” said John, suppressing the automatic cold disappointment at the reminder.

Greg shook his head. “I knew you weren't still shagging him – well, he only shags everyone once, anyway. I didn't know you'd never.”

John shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “We're just friends,” he said, a phrase he'd repeated so often that he was beginning to wonder if it would be his epitaph.

“Well, yeah,” said Greg. “But he sleeps with everyone. Why do you think Anderson hates him so much? You have to be the only man he knows who he hasn't had sex with.”

“Anderson?” repeated John, raising his eyebrows. “Jesus, really? But he's straight. And married.”

“Mostly straight,” corrected Greg. “And his faithfulness could use some work, really.”

John's mind had already spun away onto a different track. “Wait, then you've slept with him?”

“Of course,” said Greg. “Years ago now, when we first met. In fact, it was how we first met. I think he does it just to prove he can – he shags everyone once, then moves on. You know that.”

John had, but he hadn't realised that it extended to everyone except him. “We do live together,” he thought out loud. “Maybe he just doesn't want to risk making things awkward.” Except that didn't sound very much like something that Sherlock would give a shit about.

“Maybe,” said Greg, but the look on his face showed that he was as dubious about that as John was.

Sherlock swept in then, fixed his eyes on their table and stalked over. “There you are,” he said, as if they'd have been anywhere else at this time on a Saturday evening.

“Evening,” said Greg with a nod.

Sherlock ignored him. He fixed his gaze on John, looking him up-and-down for a moment. “That won't do,” he said. “Why are you dressed like an Irish peasant? Go home and change.”

John glared at him. “I happen to like this jumper,” he said.

“It's hardly going to get you laid,” said Sherlock. “Don't you read my website at all?”

Sherlock ran a website called The Science Of Seduction, on which he gave advice on the best ways to get laid, wrote blog entries detailing the results of his various sexual 'experiments' and generally contributed to the stereotype of 'every gay man is a sex-mad playboy'. John avoided the thing like the plague.

“I sincerely doubt that a change of clothes is going to help me there,” he said. Last night's pierced failure had been the closest he'd got to getting off in months.

“Nonsense,” said Sherlock dismissively. “You have plenty of things going for you, if you'd just learn how to use to them properly. Besides, you won't get in to where we're going tonight dressed like that.”

“Aren't we going to The Criterion tonight?” asked Greg. That was where they went pretty much every Saturday, unless Sherlock needed to go elsewhere for one of his 'experiments', although he tended to save those for other nights. Saturdays were a pretty clear routine: meet in Angelo's, go to the Criterion, then dance like maniacs until Sherlock worked out which of the blokes in the room he was going to seduce.

“Boring!” announced Sherlock. “Everyone there is dull.” By which he meant that he'd slept with most of them. “Tonight, we're going to The Diogenes.”

John felt his eyebrows raise. “The Diogenes?” he repeated. “That's the most exclusive gay club in London.”

“I know,” said Sherlock impatiently. “Hence the need for you to get changed.”

“How on earth are you going to get us in there?” asked Greg.

“And how the hell are we going to afford it even if you can?” added John. “One drink probably costs more than a week's wages.”

“Neither of those things will be a problem,” said Sherlock. “My brother owns it.” He gestured imperiously at them to get up. “We're going to have to go back to Baker Street on the way so John can change, and there's no time to be lost.”

“Your brother?” repeated John. “I didn't even know you had a brother!”

“He's not important,” said Sherlock dismissively. “Come on, come on, hurry up.”

John and Greg exchanged long-suffering looks, downed the last of their pints and followed Sherlock out of the pub.

 

****

 

The line outside the Diogenes stretched all the way down the road, around the corner, and off into the distance. Everyone in it was younger, richer, better dressed and better looking than John, although Sherlock looked as if he'd fit right in. Not that he paid any attention to the queue – he swept straight past it with John and Greg followed behind him like ducklings.

He was stopped by the bouncer, who held up an enormous be-ringed hand just as Sherlock attempted to barge past him. Instead of denying them entry and directing them to the back of the line as John expected, though, he said, “Mr. Holmes, your brother directed me to escort you straight to the VIP area when you arrived.”

“Not interested,” said Sherlock, going to push past again.

The bouncer didn't move and Sherlock was stopped by his sheer bulk. “I'm afraid he insisted,” he said.

Sherlock let out a long and irritated sigh. “Fine, fine,” he said impatiently. He glanced at John. “This won't take very long,” he said, as if being taken to the VIP area of the most exclusive gay club in London was a chore.

“I think we can cope,” said John, sharing an amused raised eyebrow with Greg.

The club was decorated to look like the cross between a Victorian gentleman's club and an old-style bordello, with an over-emphasis on umbrellas as a decorating motif. The VIP area was even plusher than John would have imagined, and everyone in it was even better looking than the people outside. He recognised a couple of minor popstars out of the corner of his eye and had to duck his head to avoid gawping like a country yokel on his first trip to London.

Sherlock strode up to a corner table that was set back from the main area, at which was sat a man wearing a three-piece suit as if it was perfectly normal clubwear and a woman in a short black dress who was glued to a mobile. Mounted on the wall above the table were two umbrellas, crossed as if they were swords.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock gritted out.

“Sherlock,” returned the man with a polite smile. “Always such a pleasure.” His gaze flicked to John, who was trying not to look as if he was mapping Mycroft's face for similarities to Sherlock's, and then to Greg. “And these two gentleman must be the infamous flatmate, and the good detective.”

Infamous? What the hell made him infamous? John glanced at Sherlock, who was scowling at Mycroft with the intense hatred that he usually reserved for women who attempted to chat him up, but he didn't seem to have one of his usual cutting retorts ready in response.

“I'm Mycroft Holmes,” continued Mycroft, holding his hand out to John. “Sherlock's brother.”

“John,” said John, taking his hand. “John Watson.”

“Of course,” said Mycroft, his careful smile growing slightly. “I've heard such a lot about you.”

John shot Sherlock another look and was ignored. “Have you?” he asked. “I'm sorry to say I've heard nothing about you.”

Mycroft waved that away. “I suspected not. Sherlock does like to be mysterious.”

“And there's absolutely nothing interesting to say about you,” interrupted Sherlock. “Even your increasing waistline is dull. Maybe if you tried actually getting some exercise once in a while, rather than welding your arse to that seat all day every day, your waistcoat wouldn't be straining.”

John looked automatically at Mycroft's waistcoat, but was unable to judge it as anything other than perfectly fitted. Mycroft's smile turned pained by the tiniest of degrees.

“Well, we can't all revel in your kind of exercise,” he said sharply. “There is more to life than sex you know, little brother.”

Sherlock's glare grew even harder. “Wrong!” he announced. “What on earth else could there possibly be?”

“I keep hoping you'll work that one out for yourself,” said Mycroft. “You're not usually this slow to catch on.” His eyes flicked to John again and John kept his expression as blank as he could, not wanting to give any sign that he agreed with Mycroft against Sherlock, even if he had a point. Mycroft's gaze went back to Sherlock. “Or perhaps you're merely hiding from the consequences of the realisation.”

Whatever the hell that meant, it pissed Sherlock off even more. “Enough,” he snapped. “We're done here.” He turned away, sweeping off through the VIPs with enough swish elegance to make them all turn to watch like the crowd at a tennis match.

John gave Mycroft what he hoped came across as an apologetic look. “Good to meet you,” he said awkwardly.

“You too,” said Mycroft. “And you as well, Detective Inspector,” he said, nodding to Greg, who had remained silent during the conversation, although he'd clearly been amused by it. “A shame we didn't get to talk. Perhaps you might come back later?”

“Maybe,” said Greg with a smile.

“Come on,” said John. “Or we'll lose him.” He set off without waiting for Greg – if they lost Sherlock now, that would be the last John would see of him until tomorrow. He'd get abandoned pretty quickly later, once Sherlock had set his sights on someone, but this was the part of the evening that John liked best; the part where Sherlock relaxed enough to just hang out, content to measure up everyone in the room to find whatever it was he was looking for in a partner tonight. John wasn't about to miss out on that and get stuck trying to look as if he didn't feel hideously out-of-place here.

Luckily, Sherlock had only gone as far as the nearest bar, where he was busy ordering a round of drinks. Just water for himself, as usual, but he'd also ordered a bottle of really expensive-looking champagne with two glasses for John and Greg.

“Jesus,” said John when he'd caught up with him. “That must have cost you a fortune!”

Sherlock just gave him a smug look. “All the drinks are on Mycroft tonight,” he said. “I'd take advantage, if I were you.”

John took a sip of the champagne. “Holy shit, that's good,” he said with awe. “Do I want to know how much it would have cost?”

“Almost certainly not,” said Sherlock. John had been worried that the conversation with Mycroft might have sent him into one of his moods, but he seemed to have cheered up now that they'd left the VIP area. Clearly, taking advantage of his brother's wallet was all it took.

Greg caught up with them a few minutes later, looking faintly pleased. Sherlock directed a narrow-eyed look at him, then handed him a glass of champagne. “You should be careful,” he said. “Mycroft's a lot more dangerous than he looks.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “I think I'll be okay,” he said. “I'm a big boy, after all, and I've survived several years of knowing you.” He took a sip of champagne and his eyes widened. “Jesus,” he said reverently, glancing at the bottle.

“I know,” agreed John, taking another sip of his own glass. “And apparently it's all free.” A thought struck him. “Hang on, Sherlock, why haven't we ever come here before if you can get everything for free?”

“Because Mycroft is insufferable,” said Sherlock shortly. His eyes were already roaming over the bodies gyrating on the dance floor, all of them as beautiful as if this was some American TV show about decadent celebrities. “And I can't stand the décor.”

John looked around himself. There were over-sized umbrellas hanging from the ceiling with glittering diamond-esque shapes hanging from them. “There are a lot of umbrellas,” he noted. “Why is that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It's possible he's got some form of terrifying kink,” he said. “I try not to probe into his private life any more than I have to.”

Greg frowned. “Isn't that guy a minor royal?” he asked, gesturing over at a man wearing an incredibly tight black shirt that probably cost more than John had spent on all the clothing he'd ever bought put together. “I'm sure I've seen him in the papers.”

Sherlock spared him a glance. “Nobility rather than royalty,” he said, “although the line is sometimes a bit blurred.” He took a sip of his water. “He does like to be called Prince in bed, though.”

John blinked. “You've slept with him?!” he asked, and then wondered why he was so incredulous. Sherlock had slept with everyone, after all.

Sherlock just shrugged. “He wasn't very interesting. I suppose he thinks he doesn't need to be, with a title.” He looked around again. “Not that that really makes him stand out in here, of course.”

“Jesus,” said John weakly, taking a rather longer gulp of champagne. What the hell was he doing in this place? He was the type for a pint at the pub while watching the game, not for glittering umbrellas and members of the nobility, for God's sake.

Greg nudged him with his shoulder. “You've got a title too, Doctor,” he reminded him.

“Technically you have two, Major,” added Sherlock. “And you've earned them, rather than just getting them handed to you by virtue of being born to the most insufferable man on the planet.”

“I suppose you've slept with him, too,” said John.

Sherlock made a disgusted face. “God, no. I do have some standards, you know.” He downed the last of his water. “Time to dance,” he announced. “Come on.”

John hung back. “Ah,” he said carefully. “Not sure about that.” He would stand out on that dance floor like a mangy alleycat in a litter of purebred persions. A lot more champagne was needed before he'd be up for that.

Sherlock spared him an eye-roll and grabbed his arm. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said firmly and dragged John off without allowing him a chance to protest further. He only let go once they were right in the centre of the dance floor, surrounded by pulsing, bouncing bodies, the music thumping so loudly that it felt like it was reaching right down into John's soul. John gave in to it, letting his body move to the music by instinct and trying to turn off his external awareness of the men around him.

This was the real reason he followed Sherlock out to these clubs every weekend. There was nothing like the feeling of being in the centre of a dance floor, adrenalin and music moving through him, channelling his movements until there was no need to think, nothing to worry about, just the beat and nothing else.

Well, the beat and Sherlock. Sherlock danced like he did everything else; with the kind of style and grace that would make models weep with envy, every part of him completely dedicated to it as if it was some form of religion. And, of course, every move he made exuded nothing so much as pure sex. You couldn't watch Sherlock dance and not immediately picture hot, sweaty, naked writhing bodies tangled together in the oldest dance known to man. Or at least John couldn't, but he was pretty sure from the reactions of those around them that he wasn't the only one.

It was only a matter of time before one of them caught Sherlock's eye and he abandoned John, but until then it was just him and John, dancing up a storm at the most stupidly expensive gay club in London, surrounded by minor celebrities, the sickeningly rich and, apparently, nobility. John had to duck his head to hide a grin at that thought, but from the amused glance Sherlock sent him, he was pretty sure it had been spotted.

 

****

 

Sunday mornings were usually pretty dead at 221B. After a full working week and two nights out clubbing until the small hours, John felt pretty justified in switching off his alarm clock and just letting himself sleep for as long as he could. A happy consequence of that was that whoever Sherlock had brought home, fucked, then kicked out of his room to sleep on the sofa the night before had usually cleared off home long before John came down, which meant he could have his tea and read the paper without having to worry about some sex-befuddled twink getting in his way.

So when he came down at some time after midday the next day, still in his pyjamas and rubbing sleepily at his hair, he was surprised to find a stranger in the kitchen making coffee. John stared at him blankly for a moment, his brain still mostly asleep. The man was dressed already, looking as neat and elegant as if he wasn't wearing last night's clothes after a night of debauchery.

“I can tell mornings aren't your speciality,” said the stranger in an Irish accent, looking far more amused than John really felt was necessary. He glanced at the clock. “Or afternoons, come to that.”

John had vague, drunken memories of having met the man in the cab home the night before but he was damned if he could remember his name. There had been rather a lot of champagne, and it wasn't as if he ever bothered paying attention to Sherlock's shags.

The man tipped his head to one side slightly. “And last night showed that you don't so well at the early hours either. I can only assume you're a marvel in the evenings.”

That seemed unnecessarily bitchy. John glared at him. “It's been a long week,” he said shortly, heading for the kettle.

“Of course,” said the man, an irritating smirk settling onto his face. John steadfastly ignored him in favour of making tea for himself. He glanced automatically at Sherlock's door, wondering if he should make some for him as well, but he very rarely emerged before dusk on Sundays.

“Oh, he's still all done in,” said the man with a smug grin. “I think I rather wore him out.” He winked in a way that made John's spine crawl.

“Right,” said John, not bothering to point out that Sherlock had all-night sex marathons more often than most people had hot dinners and so the idea that this guy had managed to wear him was ludicrous. “No reason for you to stick around, then.”

“Oh, now I'm getting the feeling you don't like me,” said the man, sounding even more amused. He put one hand on his heart dramatically. “I'm hurt.” He paused for a second. “Oh, no I'm not, that's just from where Sherlock bit me last night. He's very orally-fixated, isn't he?”

“I wouldn't know, or care,” said John through gritted teeth.

That earned him a scrutinising look. “Well, the first bit was true,” said the man, “but I think we both know the second bit is a lie.”

John glared at him. “What the hell makes you think you know anything about me?” he asked angrily. “If you think fucking Sherlock gives you any deeper insight than half the rest of the men in London, then you're very wrong.”

“Oh, Johnny,” said the man, tutting. Actually tutting, as if John was a confused child. “You have no idea.” He drained his coffee mug and put it down while John gaped at him. “As fascinating as this has been and, truly, it has been _riveting_ , I must be off.” He nodded at a business card that was on the kitchen table, balanced on the remains of Sherlock's flavoured lube experiment. “Tell Sherlock he can reach me any time, if he wants a second go.”

He swept out before John could do more than gape at him. Bloody hell, who the hell did he think he was? John picked up the card and looked at it for a moment.

 _Jim Moriarty  
Playboy Extraordinaire_

Jesus, what a prat. John defiantly crumbled up the card in his fist and threw it in the bin. Sherlock never gave a shit about any of his fucks once they were done with so he wouldn't want it, and John most definitely didn't want to see Jim ever again.

 

****

 

Sherlock didn't emerge from his room until it was dark, and then he only made it as far as the sofa, where he collapsed next to John with a sigh. John glanced over from the TV and was immediately greeted with the evidence that Jim Moriarty was just as orally-fixated as he'd claimed Sherlock was. There were lovebites and bruises all over Sherlock's neck and disappearing down beneath the neck of his t-shirt. Jesus, was the man part-vampire?

“Make me tea,” Sherlock commanded.

John snorted. “Did you suddenly lose the use of your limbs?” he asked. “I'm watching TV. Make your own tea.”

Sherlock let out a sigh so heartfelt that it was practically a groan. “You're a doctor. You should take care of me,” he said.

“You're not sick, and anyway, you're thinking of nurses,” said John. “Doctors are the ones who swan in, poke you a bit and pronounce something in Latin, then disappear again.”

Sherlock snorted. “Don't you think you should have a rather better opinion of your own profession?” he asked.

John shrugged. “I've spent too long as a patient for that,” he said shortly.

Sherlock didn't seem to have an answer for that. They sat in silence for a moment, then Sherlock levered himself back to his feet with a tired noise. “All right, then, as you're too cold-hearted, I'll make the tea.”

John waited until he'd put the kettle on and found a cup before adding. “Make one for me as well.”

There was a pause, during which he could practically feel Sherlock's glare burrowing into the side of his head. He ignored it.

“Fine,” gritted out Sherlock. “But you're sorting out dinner.”

Dinner on a Sunday was always a takeaway. That seemed like a rather easy compromise. “Fine,” said John.

“And I want Tang's,” said Sherlock triumphantly.

Damn, John had walked right into that one. Tang's didn't deliver – or, rather, they delivered everywhere except 221 Baker Street. There had been an unfortunate incident where Sherlock decided it was appropriate to answer the door naked, with an equally-naked Swiss Olympic skier collapsed on the stairs behind him, very clearly mid-blowjob.

He glared at Sherlock. “Fine,” he gritted out. A walk wouldn't be so bad, he supposed. He should probably stretch his aching muscles a bit after the abuse they got from all the dancing last night, or his shoulder was likely to still be stiff tomorrow at work.

The walk did loosen him up a bit and the food was good enough to make it seem worthwhile. Sherlock ate nearly all of his chow mien before he lost interest and grabbed his laptop. Updating his blog with last night's conquest, no doubt. He didn't write about every guy he shagged, just the interesting ones, but John was never sure how he rated whether or not someone was interesting. He'd have thought the Swiss skier would have merited a mention, but Sherlock had declared him 'dull beyond words' when John had asked about it.

John ate his food then cleared away the remains before heading over to his DVD shelves – the only part of the flat that Sherlock was flat-out forbidden from going near. “How far had we got?” he asked.

“The Doctor had just started the Great Fire Of London,” replied Sherlock without looking up.

“Right,” said John, pulling the correct DVD off the shelf. Doctor Who was another part of their Sunday evening tradition. He hadn't been able to believe it when he'd moved in and discovered that not only had Sherlock never watched a single episode, he had no idea even what the TARDIS was. John had immediately set about educating him, ignoring all protests that it was irrelevant information. He'd put up with a lot of things from a flatmate (as Sherlock had managed to prove over and over again) but ignorance about The Doctor was not one of them.

Sherlock typed through the first half of the episode, then set his laptop to one side. John, who couldn't help keeping track of these things, noted that that was more than he'd written about anyone in a while. Even the Polynesian twins hadn't warranted that much.

John watched The Doctor run through an extremely rickety-looking spaceship for a moment. “He was still here this morning when I came down,” he said.

“Was he?” asked Sherlock in the voice that meant that not only did he not care, but he wasn't really listening.

“He asked me to tell you that if you wanted a repeat, you-”

“I don't do repeats,” interrupted Sherlock, sounding disgusted at just the thought of it. “You know that.”

John smiled to himself. “Yeah,” he agreed. “That's what I told him.”

“Besides,” added Sherlock, “I'm going to be busy all this week. There's a new tantric-inspired masturbation technique that I need to investigate.”

Oh god, another of Sherlock's experiments. Well, at least this one sounded relatively quiet. “You'll have to let me know if it's worth trying out,” he said.

Sherlock let out an exasperated noise. “If you'd just read my website,” he said, “I wouldn't have to waste my time repeating information to you that is publicly available.”

“I know far too much about your sex life already,” said John, by which he meant 'I spend enough time thinking about your sex life, and wishing I was part of it, already'. “I'm not going to read your analysis of it as well.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as if he couldn't imagine there ever being too much information about his sex life, but thankfully didn't reply.

 

****

 

Sherlock's experiment kept him quiet and shut in his room for most of the week. He emerged occasionally, draped in a dressing gown that was obviously the only thing he was wearing and looking just about as fucked out as a man could when he was spending all his time alone. Whatever this new technique was, it looked highly effective, although the fact that it took Sherlock most of the week to decide he'd got all the data he could about it probably meant that it was too complicated for John to bother with. Despite all the toys, accessories, books, pamphlets and demonstration DVDs that littered their flat, he was still a man of simple tastes. All he needed was a couple of squirts of lube, his left hand, and any one of a vast collection of fantasies about Sherlock that he'd been collecting since they moved in together. The idea of Sherlock spending all day every day masturbating was more than enough to inspire a couple more, and John took care to explore them thoroughly, at his leisure.

They went out to the Criterion as usual that weekend and Sherlock 'recruited' a guy each night to help him with his experiments. Apparently it was vitally important that he had data on how other physiologies reacted to it, and how having a partner changed the parameters. John just nodded as if he knew what the hell Sherlock was going on about and tried to change the topic of conversation as quickly as possible.

Sherlock, Greg and John were having a drink on the balcony and watching the dance-floor on Saturday night, before Sherlock went off to find someone for his experiment, when Molly and Toby turned up.

Molly ran one of the most popular sex shops in Soho and was a self-proclaimed 'fag-hag'. She'd have been Sherlock's fag-hag if she'd thought for a second that he'd allow it, but the only times that Sherlock bothered to even acknowledge her existence was when he wanted something from her shop put aside or ordered in. Instead, she mostly hang out with Toby and his friends.

Toby was the tiniest, sparkliest and most flamboyant of what John and Greg jokingly called the Twink Army – a large group of over-excitable men who worshipped the ground that Sherlock walked on. At least some of them seemed to turn up whenever Sherlock went out, hanging around in the background and watching his every move in a manner that was more than a little creepy. Sherlock steadfastly pretended they didn't exist, completely disregarding any comments that John or Greg might make about them, although he had, of course, slept with almost all of them.

“Oh my God, it's Sherlock!” exclaimed Toby, as if he hadn't made a beeline for him from across the room the moment he'd been spotted. For some reason he was wearing a feather boa tonight. “Molly, look, it's Sherlock!”

“Hi, Sherlock,” said Molly.

Sherlock threw them a distracted look. “Good evening,” he said in a tone that said it was more a goodbye than a hello. He turned away to stare down at the dance floor.

“Hello Molly, Toby,” said John in as friendly manner as he could, trying to counteract Sherlock's abruptness.

Molly just about spared him a glance, too busy staring at the line of Sherlock's back in his extremely well-tailored shirt. “Hi, John,” she managed.

“Sherlock,” said Toby, completely ignoring John, “Sherlock, I've got News for you!”

Toby's tendency to speak with capital letters and exclamation marks never failed to put John's teeth on edge and he tried to share a look with Greg and take a step away from the conversation, but Greg was completely engrossed in his phone.

Sherlock turned around slowly to glare at Toby. “Is it that you've finally used up the last of the glitter in the Western Hemisphere, and are moving to China to destroy their stocks instead?” he asked.

“Nope,” said Toby, bouncing slightly on his heels with excitement and completely ignoring Sherlock's rudeness. “There's A Man who's been asking about you.”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “Men are always asking about me,” he pointed out, which was true, but John thought he didn't have to sound so smug about it.

“This one has been asking all over,” said Toby. “Here, at Claridge's, even at Angelo's. All sorts of questions about you. None of us have answered, of course,” he added loyally, “but others might have.”

Sherlock managed to look mildly interested. “What did he look like?” he asked.

“Dark hair, Irish accent, snappy dresser,” reported Toby, looking a little as if he was about to burst with excitement at actually getting to answer one of Sherlock's questions. “Lots of charm, and hot in a 'I'm Aware I'm God's Gift' way.”

“That's the guy from last weekend,” John realised. “The really creepy one.”

Sherlock frowned at him. “I don't remember him being especially 'creepy',” he said.

John rolled his eyes. “Do you remember anything about him that isn't sex-related?” he asked.

Sherlock had to think for a moment. “Not really,” he admitted.

“Exactly,” said John. “Trust me, I spoke to him the morning after. He was creepy.”

“I thought he was creepy too,” put in Toby. “But, you know. Totally hot enough to get away with it.”

Sherlock glanced at him. “Noted,” he said. “Thank you for the information.”

Toby looked for a moment as if he was going to pass out with excitement at the acknowledgement. “Not a problem, Sherlock!” he said. “Anything else you need, anything at all, just let me know! Or any of the guys, we'll all help any way we can!”

“Fantastic,” said Sherlock, already distracted by the dance floor again. He looked at John. “I'm going to dance,” he announced. “Coming?”

“Of course,” said John. He looked at Greg, who was still busy with his phone. “Greg?”

Greg glanced up. “Actually,” he said, “I think I might be off.”

John felt his surprise show on his face. “Already?” he asked. Greg didn't come out every time with them, but when he did he stayed out all night, usually finding someone to hook up with in the toilets or somewhere equally quick and dirty.

Greg shrugged one shoulder. “Got to to see a man about a dog,” he said, tucking his phone away.

Sherlock fixed a long, intense stare at him. “Remember what I said before,” he said. “He's one of the most dangerous men in London. Possibly the most dangerous.”

Greg scoffed. “I hardly think a club-owner counts as dangerous in a city with this many criminals and politicians.”

“Wait,” said John, his brain struggling to keep up with the sudden subject change. “You're talking about Sherlock's brother? You're going out with him?”

“Sherlock has a brother?!” repeated Toby in tones that suggested that he'd been told that the Second Coming was happening. “And he's gay as well?!”

Everyone except Molly ignored him. “Oh wow,” she said to him in a hushed voice. “Can you imagine the Christmas dinners?”

Greg shrugged self-consciously. “We're just going for a drink,” he said defensively.

John grinned. “Good for you,” he said, and slapped Greg's shoulder. “Don't worry about Sherlock, he's just being- well, he's just being Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. “I am not,” he snapped. “Mycroft is deceptive. You can't trust him.”

“It's just a drink,” said Greg, then pulled out his phone again as it beeped to signify an in-coming message. “I have to go,” he said, reading it. He glanced up. “I'll see you guys later. Bye Molly, Toby.”

Sherlock watched him leave with a deep frown, then turned back to John. “Time to dance,” he said in a voice that didn't allow any opposition. John didn't bother with any, he just nodded and followed as Sherlock took off for the stairs down to the dance floor.

“Yay!” cheered Toby. “Time to shake our groove thangs!”

John tried to ignore him and kept close behind Sherlock, who led him an unusually convoluted and intricate route to the dance floor. Somehow, when they arrived there, they'd lost Toby and Molly, and Sherlock shot him a smug, triumphant look. John just rolled his eyes and settled in to dancing to the familiar rhythm.

It wasn't until the next day that he got around to asking Sherlock about his attitude towards Mycroft.

“You said Mycroft was dangerous,” he asked as he made the tea the next morning, just after Sherlock's shag had been chased away by a rather frank appraisal of his personal life from Sherlock. “How can he be dangerous?”

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, then said in a dark voice, “Put it this way. You know the concept of the Gay Mafia?”

“Well, yeah, but it's not a real thing,” said John.

“If it was,” said Sherlock fiercely, “then Mycroft would be the Don. Nothing happens in the scene that he doesn't know about, and most of it he orchestrates. He manipulates everyone he comes into contact with.”

Which had just left John even more puzzled, really, so he let it go. It wasn't as if he could really pretend to be on the higher moral ground when it came to sibling rivalry, after all.

 

****

 

They didn't hear anything about Jim Moriarty over the next couple of weeks and John allowed himself to largely forget his existence. Things at work became ridiculously busy – London seemed to be going through one of those periodic phases where everyone was ill, and he was too tired when he got home each evening to do more than crash out in front of the telly for a few hours before dragging himself off to bed.

Sherlock went out almost every evening for a fortnight, bringing back just about every variety of gay man that London had to offer for John to find sleeping on the sofa each morning before work. At the end of the fortnight, he descended into one of his periodic funks, lying on the sofa in his dressing gown and refusing to even acknowledge John's existence, let alone talk to him. John knew enough to leave him to it, even when he made no move to get up and ready when it was time for their usual Friday night out. John could use a night in after the week he'd had, so he refrained from comment and put his slippers on rather than his dancing shoes.

 _Doesn't look like we'll be out tonight_ , he sent to Greg.

 _That's okay,_ Greg sent back. _I've got a date, anyway._

 _Going well with Mycroft, then?_ replied John.

There was no reply for a while, then _Still early days. Ask me again in a few weeks._

John stared at it for a moment, amused, then tucked his phone away and looked over at Sherlock's slumped figure. “If I put Doctor Who on,” he said, “are you going to throw things at the telly?”

Sherlock made a vague, sweeping gesture with his hand that John chose to interpret as 'I don't care if you choose to land a TARDIS in the living room, as long as you leave me alone'. Good enough.

 

****

 

The next evening, Sherlock roused himself enough to drag John and Greg out to the Criterion, but once there it became clear that he was still stuck in his black mood.

“Look at them,” he sneered, gesturing out at the dance floor. “Idiots, all of them. And so _dull_ \- there's no one here with even a hint at an interesting kink. It's all the same old rubbish.”

Greg raised an eyebrow. “Come on, you can't tell that just from looking,” he said.

Sherlock gave him a disgusted look. “Of course I can,” he said. He gestured at a man in a tight pair of jeans near-by. “Cross-dressing. Well, just the shoes – got a thing for the way his calves stretch in high heels.” He pointed to the man he was talking to. “Likes tying people up. Nothing too hardcore, though, just bondage so mild it's practically vanilla.”

“Oh, you're just making this up,” said Greg.

Sherlock seemed to take that as a challenge. “That guy there, he likes wearing a pilot's hat and being called 'Captain'. That one there is a bit more interesting, but no use to me. He's asexual, but hasn't realised it yet. Still thinks he just needs to give homosexuality a proper try. It's all so _obvious_ , how can you not see it?”

John looked around at the men Sherlock had been gesturing at, trying to work out how he might know this stuff. “I don't see it,” he admitted.

Sherlock let out a long sigh. “Look at his calves,” he said, pointing at the first man, the high heels one. “Clearly spends a lot of time in women's shoes, but none of the signs that he ever wears any of the rest of it. Keeps twitching his leg muscles. His friend there, you can see the callouses on his fingers, that tells you everything you need to about his rope-tying habits.”

John shook his head slightly. “Brilliant,” he said. “That's brilliant, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked pleased at the compliment but shrugged one shoulder nonchalantly as if trying to hide it. “It's obvious,” he said. “I just don't see why everyone else is too stupid to work it out – it would save all this stupid messing about, all the times sexually incompatible men go home with each other.”

He gestured at two men who were flirting heavily in the corner, draped all over each other. “They're going to both have a really unpleasant surprise when they get into bed.” He made a face as if even the idea of it was repellent, and then swept an arm around to take in the whole club. “It's all the _same_ , it's dull, dull, DULL!” He looked about two seconds away from having one of his temper tantrums – the ones that tended to lead to them being barred from places, and John cast about desperately for something that might distract him enough to save them all from being thrown out by the bouncers.

Before he could come up with anything, there was a smooth voice behind them. “How about we liven it up a bit then?”

He, Sherlock and Greg all turned at the same moment and John almost let out a groan when he saw Jim Moriarty standing there. Great, just what this evening needed to top it off.

Sherlock gave Jim a disdainful look. “I've already had you,” he said dismissively.

“I remember,” said Jim cheerfully. “And what an energetic night it was. I'm not suggesting a rematch, though, I'm suggesting a wager.”

Sherlock looked interested and John tried to suppress a groan. Oh, this was not going to end well. “What kind of wager?”

“Very simple,” said Jim. “I bet I can persuade two men to have a threesome with me in the alley out back before you can do the same.”

Sherlock scoffed. “You'd have no chance,” he said. John glared at the side of his head, trying to get him to just reject the idea out-of-hand and tell Jim to fuck off. It didn't work. “What would be the stakes? I can't think of anything I want from you.”

Jim smiled slowly, showing far too many teeth. It was clear he knew Sherlock was hooked just as much as John did. “Well, you'll get the satisfaction of having won, of course,” he said. “And I tell you what, I'll even throw in a promise that I'll never bother you again. If you win, of course.”

“And if you do?” asked Sherlock.

Jim's smile turned even creepier. John turned his glare on him instead, which did him about as much good as glaring at Sherlock had done. “Then you break your golden rule and spend the night with me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Predictable,” he said.

Jim tucked his hands into his pockets. “Perhaps,” he acknowledged, “but I can guarantee that the rest of the night won't be.”

“If you win,” Sherlock reminded him.

John lost his patience. “You can't seriously be considering this?” he asked. “It's ridiculous!”

Sherlock sent him a patronising look, as if he could never be expected to understand. “It's just a bet,” he said. “And it would make things more interesting. Besides, you can't seriously imagine he'll win.”

“Oh, I think you might be surprised,” said Jim, smirking in an insufferable way.

Sherlock looked him up and down. “I think it would go beyond surprise,” he said.

“Sherlock,” said Greg uneasily. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Gambling with sex as the stakes seems a bit-”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” snapped Sherlock. “When did you two get so _boring_?” He looked hard at Jim. “You're on,” he said. “Starting now?”

Jim beamed. “Oh yes,” he said, then abruptly turned and disappeared.

“Sherlock,” said John, reaching for his sleeve. “What-”

“Later,” said Sherlock, shaking off his grip and disappearing after Jim before John could say more.

“God damn it,” said John with feeling.

Greg nodded. “I hear that,” he said. “Still, as arrogant as Sherlock is, he's probably right – he'll win, and then that'll be an end to it.”

“I really hope you're right,” said John. “I've got a bad feeling about this.”

 

****

 

Sherlock lost. John wasn't sure who was more surprised about it – Sherlock, John, or the two men that Sherlock had enticed out into the alleyway only to find Jim and his two men already there, engaged in an act that, from what John heard afterwards, Greg would almost certainly have had them all arrested for if he'd seen it.

Sherlock was fuming when he found his way back to where John and Greg were propping the bar up, his two men still trailing after him.

“How the hell did he manage it?” he asked, as if John had been paying any attention to Jim's seduction techniques.

“We, uh, we could still go elsewhere,” said one of the guys. “My place is just around the corner.”

Sherlock glared at him. “Don't be ridiculous,” he spat. “Go away, I'm done with you.”

That earned him twin looks of hatred. “Fucking tosser,” the other one muttered and then they both, thankfully, disappeared.

Sherlock reached out and stole John's drink right out of his hand, knocking it all back in one go. John was too surprised to see him actually drink alcohol to complain. “I should have won,” Sherlock said. “How did this happen?”

Jim appeared twenty minutes later, looking a little flushed but otherwise showing no signs of what he'd just been up to. “Your place or mine?” he asked Sherlock smugly.

Sherlock glared at him. “Mine,” he bit off.

John sighed and glanced at Greg. “Can I crash at yours tonight?” he asked. There was no way in hell he wanted to be in the same flat as whatever Jim had planned for tonight.

“Yeah, course,” said Greg. John nodded his thanks, then summoned the bartender in order to get another drink. There really didn't seem any point in staying sober tonight.

 

****

 

John got roughly two hours of sleep on Greg's sofa before he was woken up by Greg stumbling through the room.

“Don't mind me, go back to sleep,” he said, sitting down on a chair to put his shoes on. “There's been a murder and I've got to go, but feel free to stay as long as you like. If I'm not back, just make sure it's all locked up when you leave.”

“Right,” said John, still half-asleep and blinking as Greg hunted around a bit, then eventually found his coat. “Aren't you a bit hungover and sleep-deprived for detecting?”

“I'll be fine,” said Greg. “It sounds like a follow-up to a case I had last week – I have to go, or bloody Dimmock will horn in and make a mess.”

“Ah, work politics,” said John. “Such a joy.”

“You said it, mate,” muttered Greg. “Right, I'll see you later. Enjoy your sleep.”

“Oh, I will,” said John. “Enjoy tramping around a crime scene in the dark.”

“Bastard,” said Greg half-heartedly, and left. John let his eyes fall shut and fell asleep again almost immediately.

He left it as late as he really could before he went back to Baker Street, hoping that Jim would have already cleared off, but he was still there, sitting at the kitchen table and drinking coffee with Sherlock as if they were friends. John kept the scowl off his face by sheer force of will.

“You look like shit,” Sherlock greeted him. He was in just his dressing gown, which was only very loosely fastened, showing that a large portion of his chest was festooned with lovebites again. “You really should have just come home last night – you know what sleeping on sofas does to your shoulder.”

“It's not so bad,” lied John.

“That injury must make it very difficult for you to achieve certain sexual positions,” noted Jim, looking as if he was picturing it.

John glared at him. “None of your business,” he said.

Jim raised both eyebrows. “Sore spot, is it?”

John wanted to throw something at him, but instead he took a deep breath. “I'm going to shower,” he announced, and left them to it.

After a long, hot shower and a couple of painkillers, he felt almost human again and was beginning to regret letting Jim wind him up so easily. That didn't stop him being relieved when he went downstairs to find Jim gone and Sherlock engrossed with his laptop, though. A nice, relaxed Sunday night with take-away and Doctor Who was just what he needed, without any smug Irish bastards ruining it.

 

****

 

Greg was on the evening news the next night. He looked over-tired and stressed, and John wondered how much sleep he'd had since he'd been summoned from his bed. The murder he'd gone to had been confirmed as the second similar one in a week and the press were all over it, trying to pry as many sordid details out of Greg as possible. It was just the kind of thing the tabloids loved - two young, good-looking, 'he was such a special person'-type gay men murdered, complete with weeping parents and no clue as to who the killer might be. The men had last been seen in two completely different gay hang-outs, then disappeared for a day or two before being discovered dumped in back alleys, tortured and mutilated almost beyond recognition.

John felt his stomach churn as the news presenters talked about it – both the places mentioned were places he and Sherlock often went to, and he was sure the faces of the victims looked at least a bit familiar.

“Jesus,” he said. “A bit close to home.”

Sherlock glanced up from whatever he was reading about and frowned. “I've had sex with both those men,” he said after a moment of staring at the photos.

John turned to stare at him. “Christ!” he said. “Really?”

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “It's not completely unexpected,” he said. “This killer is clearly targeting the kind of man who'll go back to a stranger's house after having met them in a club, which covers most of the men I've had sex with.”

“Yeah, but still,” said John. “I'm sorry, Sherlock, that's really shit.”

Sherlock frowned with confusion. “Why?” he asked. “I didn't know them.”

“Well, no,” acknowledged John. “But it still must be a bit of a shock.”

“Not particularly,” said Sherlock with a shrug, and turned back to his reading.

John stared at him for a moment, then gave up. He should know better than to expect normal responses from Sherlock about this kind of stuff by now.

 

****

 

There wasn't an awful lot that he'd trade about working at the surgery for how things had been in the Army, but the mounds of paperwork were definitely on the list. After a long afternoon that involved far more form-filling that it did diagnoses, he arrived home to find Sherlock watching military porn.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching as a man dressed as a drill sergeant did something completely inappropriate with a gun to a naked, trembling recruit.

“Christ,” he said, letting the full weight of his dismal day be heard in his voice.

“John,” said Sherlock, sitting forward to turn off the DVD, for which John was incredibly grateful. “You weren't here.”

They'd had a very long and detailed discussion about exactly when it was appropriate for Sherlock to watch porn in their sitting room, which had ended with the compromise that if John was out or asleep, Sherlock could watch what he liked, as long as he kept any physical activities inspired by his viewing to the bedroom.

“Yeah, I was stuck with paperwork,” said John, starting to take off his coat. Sherlock leaned back from the remote, and John froze, one arm still in its sleeve.

“What is that?” he asked in a dangerous voice.

Sherlock glanced down at his lap, where John's highly illegal and previously well-hidden gun was resting. “Oh, I just wanted to see-”

“No,” said John, cutting him off. “No, Sherlock! There's no 'I just wanted to see' about this. What the hell made you think you could take that?” He could feel the fury building in him, taking in every other time when Sherlock had pushed him too far, and John had just let it go, as well as all the shittiness of his day at work. “It's not a fucking toy! You don't get to play about with it! It's dangerous – do you even understand that? It kills people!”

“Not when it's unloaded it doesn't,” said Sherlock.

“As if you have the slightest fucking clue about gun safety,” said John. He marched across the room and snatched the gun back from Sherlock, checking it over to make sure that it really wasn't loaded, and then fixed him with the sternest look he could manage. “If you ever touch this again, very bad things will happen to you,” he said. “I'm not kidding, Sherlock. And, if I ever, ever even suspect you've been using it for one of your 'experiments', I will move out. I'll leave, and that'll be the last you'll hear of me.”

That seemed to get through to Sherlock, at least. He nodded. “Understood,” he said. “John, I wasn't going to do anything with it, I just wanted to see how realistic that porn was.”

“It was completely unrealistic,” said John. “Nothing about the weapons they use in porn is even a little bit plausible. I could have told you that.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “As I suspected, then.” He glanced back at the telly, and John could see that he was already moving on from the speech John had given him. Well, he'd just have to reinforce it then.

“I'm going to hide this away again,” he said. “Seriously, Sherlock, don't even think about going looking for it. Do you have any idea how much trouble I'd be in if it got found? Our closest friend is a police officer, for fuck's sake! I am not going to prison just because you wanted a prop to watch porn with.”

Sherlock held up his hands as if in surrender. “I said I understood, John,” he said. “It won't happen again.”

John glared at him for a long moment, hoping like hell that he wasn't bluffing.

“John,” said Sherlock in a lower voice. “I give you my word. I won't touch it again.” There was a pause, then he ducked his eyes to the floor. “I'm sorry,” he added.

John looked at him for another long minute, then nodded and went to hide the gun even more thoroughly than he had the first time. He'd just have to trust Sherlock on this one.

Of course, the sensible thing would be to get rid of it, but then it would have been even more sensible not to get it in the first place. John wasn't particularly good at doing the sensible thing, or he wouldn't be living with Sherlock at all. Besides, knowing it was there, even if it was hidden away, made him feel better when he woke up sweating from a nightmare.

 

****

 

Three weeks later, there'd been another murder but no progress from the police. Greg had started to take on a harried, exhausted look, especially after the papers somehow found out that the victims had been sexually assaulted as well as tortured and spent a few days splashing increasingly sensationalised headlines across the front pages.

John was reading an article online about the dangers of what the website insisted on referring to as 'the gay lifestyle' and scowling furiously to himself when Sherlock threw himself down into his chair and announced, “I need your help with an experiment.”

That was unprecedented. Sherlock's experiments were all sex or seduction related, and if he needed help with them then he picked up some random bloke. “A sex experiment?” John asked, confused.

“Of course not,” said Sherlock. “I wouldn't ask you for that.” Of course not. After all, John was the only man in London that Sherlock apparently wouldn't have sex with. “It's bee pheromones,” he said, carefully setting a tiny vial down on the table.

John stared at the vial. “What?” he asked.

“One of my clients wants to know if these things actually work,” explained Sherlock. “They're meant to enhance your natural attractions and enable you to pull a higher class of man.”

Sherlock's self-created job didn't just include his website and the blog he kept there. He also took clients – the kind of stupidly rich people who thought it was a good idea to pay someone for advice about a specific seduction or sex-related problem. John had no idea how much it cost to hire Sherlock to lay out exactly how you should pull someone, or provide you with all the information necessary to give them the fuck of their life, but he was pretty certain it wasn't enough to fund Sherlock's life-style.

The only other income he got was the occasional sponsorship with companies who wanted him to mention their products on his blog. The problem with that was that Sherlock was always scrupulously honest about whatever it was they were paying him to mention, which could swing both ways. Last year a lube company had tried to sue him after he'd told the internet that their latest product was more suited to car engines than anal sex. They'd dropped the case when Sherlock had turned up to the first hearing with a large stack of spreadsheets, graphs and witness statements, but the number of companies that had been willing to risk Sherlock's complete honesty had dwindled since then. John could only assume that Sherlock had a level of personal wealth that meant actually making money from his job was less important than keeping himself entertained.

As commissions went, investigating bee pheromones was actually rather tame, but that didn't mean that John didn't raise an eyebrow at it.

“Because bees are well-known for their pulling power,” he said sceptically.

Sherlock shrugged. “The company that makes it say that they've carried out trials that prove it works. I just need to verify the truth of their claims.”

“Why don't you do it yourself then?” asked John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Think, John,” he said. “They're meant to help you pull people that you wouldn't normally be able to get. There's no one that falls into that category for me.” Sadly that was true, the arrogant bastard. “I need a subject whose pulling techniques and normal rate of success I'm familiar with in order to analyse the results properly. It's you or Greg, and he's busy with these murders. And bloody Mycroft,” he added bitterly. Greg had managed to find time for another few nights out with Mycroft, and Sherlock was still sulking about the whole thing.

John looked back at the vial and sighed. “What would it involve?” he asked with resignation.

Sherlock beamed and sat back, knowing as well as John did that he'd given in. “Nothing stressful,” he said. “I just need you to wear it both nights that we go out this weekend and engage in your usual, clumsy attempts at pulling. I should be able to tell if it has any effect through observation.”

John glared at him. “There's nothing clumsy about my pulling technique.”

“Of course not,” agreed Sherlock. “That's why you haven't been laid in over five months.” John's scowl deepened and Sherlock waved it away. “Oh, don't look like that, it's just that you don't use your charms effectively. I bet if I just coached you for a few weeks-” He cut himself off and looked at John with an excited light in his eyes.

“No,” said John quickly. “No, I'm not going to be a case study for your bloody website. I'll spend a weekend drenched in that stuff, but that's it, Sherlock.”

Sherlock made a disappointed face. “Fine,” he said. “I only want to help.”

“I don't need your help,” said John. “I'm fine with the way things are.” Not exactly true, but close enough to get Sherlock to shut up about it.

 

****

 

Sherlock applied the pheromones himself, clearly not trusting John with something as simple as spraying his own neck. He then leant forward and took in a deep breath only inches from John's skin, which sent a warm flush through John that he really hoped wasn't noticeable.

“Smells like honey,” said Sherlock, moving back again.

“Well, is it working?” John asked awkwardly, trying to cover his reaction to Sherlock's proximity. “Is it making you more attracted to me, or whatever?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then tipped his head to one side. “It's making me want toast,” he said, then spun away to grab up his jacket. “Come on, let's go and see how it affects everyone else.”

John followed him out the door. “This isn't going to end with me getting chased around by bees all night, is it?” he asked.

Sherlock gave him a 'you're an idiot' look. “Of course not, John. Bees don't come out at night.”

Greg was waiting for them as Angelo's, looking as if he needed a night at home on the sofa a lot more than a night out. He greeted them with a grin though, and waved off John's concerns.

“Trust me,” he said. “A night out is going to do me a lot more good then sitting at home, going over and over the details of this bloody case and getting nowhere.”

They had a few drinks at Angelo's – free, of course. Angelo always gave them free drinks, because of something that Sherlock had done for his sex life that John had successfully managed to avoid finding out about for nearly five years now, and was hoping never to have to hear about. Whatever it was had been enough for Angelo to pronounce himself forever in Sherlock's debt, which was worrying all on its own, without even taking into account the insufferably smug look that Sherlock got whenever it was brought up.

They went to the Criterion afterwards – following their usual pattern, so that Sherlock's data for the pheromones experiment was as uncontaminated as possible. The only difference that John had noticed so far was that Sherlock's attention was on him a lot more than was normal. Rather than constantly scouting around for a suitable quarry, he was keeping his eyes on John, tracking the effects of the pheromones on the men around him. Having Sherlock's focus so fully on him gave John a strange, excited feeling in the pit of his stomach that he tried to ignore.

After they'd had a couple of drinks, Jim turned up like a bad penny. Since the night of his bet with Sherlock, he'd been hanging around more and more often, and had even been at the flat a couple of times when John had come home from work. The whole thing made John uneasy, probably because of Jim's obvious dislike of him coupled with a jealousy that John hadn't managed to choke off yet. Aside from the fact that Sherlock had slept with him twice, John wasn't used to having to share Sherlock's friendship with anyone more than Greg, and especially not anyone who was clearly such a git.

“It's the good Inspector,” Jim said, looking at Greg. “Shouldn't you be out hunting down that murderer so that we can all sleep safe in our beds? Or in other people's beds?”

“Even the police are allowed a night off,” said Greg shortly. John got the feeling that he didn't particularly like Jim either.

Jim opened his eyes wide with faux-shock. “And here I thought justice never slept.”

“Are you getting any closer to catching the bastard?” John asked, trying to distract Greg from just throttling Jim.

Greg gave a half-shrug. “Can't really talk about it,” he said. “Our profilers have worked out it's some nutter with Mummy issues and an unhealthy fascination with knifes – something to do with phallic symbolism. The more I learn about the psychology of these psychos, the less I really understand it.”

The mocking look fell off Jim's face. “Don't you think that's a bit simplistic for someone as cunning as this man seems to be?” he asked.

“Cunning?” repeated Greg. “I hardly think seducing blokes, taking them home and then slicing them up displays a great deal of cunning. Completely batshit-crazy levels of insanity seems closer to the mark.”

“Of course, the Yard are going about it all wrong,” said Sherlock absently, his attention still mainly on the men around them.

Greg made a frustrated noise. “One case like this and suddenly everyone's a backseat policeman,” he said. “We're doing just fine. We'll catch the bastard.”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, “that man over there has been looking at you for the last ten minutes. You should go and talk to him.”

John glanced over. The man in question was leaning over the bar, giving his order to the bartender and showing no sign that he even knew John Watson existed. He was hot though, John noted in passing, taking in the fit of his shirt over his shoulders.

“I thought I was meant to be proceeding as normal tonight,” he said.

Sherlock scowled. “Dull,” he said. “You'll never actually get anywhere if you don't engage, you know.”

John shrugged. “Later,” he said. “I'm fine here for now.”

Sherlock gave him a betrayed look and muttered something dark under his breath. “Well, at least come and dance then,” he said, setting his drink down. “The effects it has on the dance floor should be interesting.”

John sighed in a put-upon manner, as if going to dance with Sherlock was going to be a trial, and put his own drink down. “If I must.”

Sherlock shot him a grin that said he saw straight through him and took off, John only a step behind him.

 

****

 

John didn't end up getting off with anyone that night, despite whatever effect the pheromones were having, although he did dance with a couple of guys who looked as if they'd be up for more if he pushed it. He just wasn't really in the mood for it, not with Sherlock keeping close enough him to always be within arm's reach, ignoring several rather blatant come-ons in order to keep observing John.

He was feeling pretty good by the time they left the club, buzzing from just the right amount of alcohol and several long hours of dancing. Greg had slipped off earlier, either to find Mycroft or to collapse into bed, and Jim had disappeared god-knows-where once he'd realised that Sherlock was distracted, so it was just John and Sherlock. Which was exactly how John liked it.

The club was closing as they left and groups of people were crowding the pavement. John and Sherlock wove through them, heading for somewhere they'd be able to get a taxi from.

“There's Toby,” said John, nodding over at him. “Looks like quite a lot of the Twink Army were out tonight.” Toby was wearing a hot pink shirt and surrounded by a large group of young guys, most of them drenched in glitter.

Sherlock didn't even bother glancing over. “I saw them earlier. The fact that you didn't is more than a little worrying, given their flamboyance.”

John shrugged, too used to casual insults from Sherlock to let it affect his good mood. “I suppose I was just having too much fun to bother looking around.” He smiled at the reminder, too happy to really guard his expression. “It's been a really good night.”

Sherlock smiled back, apparently just as pleased, which made a shot of possessive smugness run down John's spine. Sherlock might sleep with the rest of London and he might play Jim's games, but he only ever smiled at John like that. They'd stopped moving at the edge of the pavement, right where the taxis were lining up, but neither of them made a move to get in one for the moment.

“I'm definitely ready for my bed now though,” added John, rolling his shoulders back and wincing slightly at the twinge in his bad one.

Something complicated passed over Sherlock's face so quickly that John wondered afterwards if he'd imagined it, and then his smile fell away. “Bed, yes,” he agreed, and looked around at the crowd again, pinpointing Toby and his friends. “You!” he called out, pointing at a man wearing a shimmery silver shirt. “Do you want to come home with me?”

The man blinked in surprise, then glanced disbelievingly at his friends. “Me?” he replied. Sherlock looked impatient. “Oh, hell yes.”

“Come on then,” said Sherlock brusquely, already turning back to the taxi queue. The man scurried over to join them and John let out a tiny sigh, then reprimanded himself. He knew how things stood and how Sherlock was. He really shouldn't let himself expect anything different.

 

****

 

Sherlock sprayed him with bee pheromones again the next night.

“What are the results so far?” John asked, twitching awkwardly at the cold spray.

“Inconclusive,” said Sherlock. “You seemed to attract more attention that normal, but there are other factors to be considered. Tonight's observations should provide enough data for some solid conclusions.”

“It better,” said John. “This is the last night I'm doing this.”

Sherlock gave him a puzzled look. “You don't like wearing them,” he stated. “Why not?”

John made a face. “I don't like wondering if a guy's talking to me because of me, or because of the smell of honey,” he said.

“They're all talking to you because of you,” said Sherlock. “Obviously. The pheromones just prompt them to take a slightly longer look in the first instance – like wearing a decent shirt as opposed to one of your crimes against sartorial elegance.”

“There's nothing wrong with my shirts,” said John, pulling at the sleeves of the blue-checked one he was wearing tonight.

“You could not be more wrong,” Sherlock informed him. John scowled at him and was ignored. “That's an argument for a different night, anyway. If we change your usual clothing standards tonight, this experiment will be compromised.”

“What a shame,” said John dryly just as his message tone beeped on his phone.

 _Going to have to cry off tonight, sorry. Been another murder, and it looks like I'm going to be at the crime scene all night._

“Greg can't come out,” John reported to Sherlock as he texted back. Sherlock entirely failed to look upset about that. “There's been another murder.”

 _That's rubbish. Hope it's nothing too unpleasant._ He spared a moment to hope, fervently, that the victim wasn't anyone they knew.

Greg's reply came through a couple of minutes later, as they were getting into a taxi.

 _It is. This psycho is getting increasingly creative._

John made a face to himself as his mind rushed through the possible implications of that. He'd seen an awful lot of messed up things in Afghanistan, so the list went on for a while. He forcibly shut it down and put his phone away. No point in ruining a good night out with morbid thoughts.

 

****

 

They went to the Criterion again. Presumably Sherlock wanted to keep as many of the variables of his experiment the same as possible, or maybe he just couldn't be bothered to get more creative than that. John didn't bother asking.

Molly and Toby turned up, and Toby spent some time trying to coax some details about the silver-shirted bloke from last night out of Sherlock, who for once seemed uninterested in discussing his sexual exploits. Molly eventually took pity on him and changed the conversation to a new range of DVDs that she was getting in to the shop next week. Something about a crossover between Japanese martial arts and porn which just sounded unnecessarily violent and really rather painful to John, but Sherlock looked fascinated.

John escaped the discussion to go to the bar. The last thing he needed was mental images of Sherlock and some faceless but incredibly hot Japanese guy engaging in sexual acrobatics.

The bar was pretty busy, given how early in the night it was. It wasn't several people deep like it would be later, but it did require a bit of wriggling and some careful use of elbows to get a space at it. He settled in carefully, pressed against the men to either side of him, and tried to gauge just how long he was going to be waiting. Most of the barstaff knew him, but being associated with Sherlock Holmes meant that that was usually a disadvantage rather than a benefit.

“Oh, it's you!” said a voice next to him, and John looked at the guy standing to his right. He looked vaguely familiar and for a moment he was terrified that it was some bloke that Sherlock had shagged, who was going to start in on how amazing he was.

The man had gone faintly pink. “I saw you here last night,” he explained, sounding faintly embarrassed, and John suddenly recognised him as the man Sherlock had claimed had been checking him out the previous evening.

“I do seem to spend far too much time here,” John replied with a smile. He was pretty hot up-close as well, in a generic fashion, but that was good enough for John. Maybe it was time to finally put these pheromones to use.

“That's a good thing.” said the man. “It means I get a second chance at finding the courage to talk to you.” There was a pause, then he winced slightly at his own cheesiness.

 _He's really bad at this_ , thought John, and his smile grew. There was something endearing about the way he looked faintly panicked, as if he wasn't really sure he could control what was going to come out of his mouth next.

“I'm John,” he said.

“Sean,” replied the man. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Definitely,” said John. That would solve his little ignored-by-the-barstaff problem, after all.

Sean did get served much quicker than John would have been. John waited until Tina had got their drinks before adding, “And a glass of water, please,” to Sean's order.

“For my friend,” he clarified to Sean once Tina had turned away to get it. “He has a tendency to forget that he needs to remain hydrated if he's going to dance for hours.”

Sean frowned slightly. “Your friend,” he asked, “or your 'friend'?”

“Just a friend,” said John firmly. “I'm just in the habit of looking out for him, because he has a minor tendency to be an idiot.”

Sean laughed. “Yeah, I have friends like that,” he said. “Ones you have to keep a bit of an eye on, or they'll end up throwing up on a bouncer.”

John snorted. “Sherlock's more likely to seduce a bouncer, but yeah, sort of like that.”

“Sherlock?” repeated Sean. “Wait, you're friends with Sherlock Holmes?”

John couldn't restrain a groan. “Please tell me you haven't slept with him,” he said, without much hope.

Sean looked taken aback rather than wide-eyed, though. “No,” he said. “I've just heard stories. They can't really all be true, though.”

John let out a bitter laugh. “Trust me, they are,” he said.

Tina came back with their drinks and Sean paid her. John picked up his own drink and Sherlock's water. “Come on,” he said. “You can meet him, and judge for yourself.” _And then I can know immediately whether you're going to be a crazed fanboy or not, and therefore whether it's worth bothering to pursue this._

Sherlock took one look at Sean as they walked up, then smirked at John. “I told you,” he said.

“Yes, yes,” said John, handing him his water. “You're always right. Drink that and shut up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes but complied.

Sean seemed able to resist Sherlock's charms – possibly helped by the fact that Sherlock showed zero interest in him after his initial comment, so John let himself relax. They chatted for a while, leaving Sherlock, Molly and Toby to their discussion of the merits of silicone versus rubber when it came to dildos, which seemed to be less of a discussion and more of a lecture from Sherlock that John had heard before.

He and Sean went off to dance and when they got back, Jim had shown up and Molly and Toby had disappeared. Jim was leaning close to Sherlock with a manic smile, explaining something that seemed to involve a lot of hand gestures. Sherlock was watching him with his usual expressionless mask, but John knew him well enough to see that he was intrigued.

“I can't,” he said just as John and Sean came over. “I'm already running an experiment tonight that needs my attention.”

Jim gave an exaggerated sigh. “I think we both know you've got all the data you'll need on that,” he said, his eyes sliding to John as he said 'that' in a voice that might have been speaking of a particularly repellent form of insect. “And this is going to be so much more fun!”

Sherlock mulled it over for a moment. “Fine,” he said. He turned to John and gestured at him imperiously. “Do not leave this club without informing me,” he said, and then swept off.

Jim grinned in a way that made John uncomfortable. “Yes, be a good dog and stay, Johnny,” he said, then set off after Sherlock.

John suppressed a sigh, then looked at Sean. “Another drink?” he suggested.

 

****

 

John didn't see Sherlock again until much, much later. For once though, he didn't mind being abandoned. He had a good time with Sean, who turned out to be almost as much fun to dance with as Sherlock was, especially once he'd plucked up the nerve to pull John close and kiss him. John was starting to contemplate being the one necking in the back of the taxi home tonight when Sean glanced at his watch and made an unhappy face.

“I'm going to have to go,” he said with regret. “It's my niece's birthday tomorrow and I've got to get up stupidly early for a family trip to the zoo.”

“Oh,” said John. “That's a shame. How old is she?”

“Eight. She's going through a big cats phase,” said Sean. “Look,” he added awkwardly. “I've had a really good time tonight. Could I get your number? I'd love to see you again.”

John felt his smile grow to ridiculous proportions and pulled out his phone. “Of course,” he said. He might not be getting a shag tonight, but there was always next time. And maybe he'd be able to get more out of it as well – unlike Sherlock, he didn't think that relationships began and ended with mutual orgasms.

He texted Sherlock once Sean was gone. _Thinking of going home. Where are you?_

 _Women's toilets,_ came the reply a minute later. _Stay put, I'll be there in a minute._

“Why the hell were you in the women's toilets?” was the first thing John asked when Sherlock turned up, followed by a dishevelled-looking man who had the dazed look of someone who had just had an incredible orgasm. Sherlock, of course, looked as put together as he always did, with no sign at all of whatever it was they'd been up to.

Sherlock gave him a look that said he'd just asked a ridiculously stupid question. “Their toilet cubicles are larger than ours,” he said. “It's unfair, really – clearly some kind of discrimination.”

“Right,” said John, deciding to ignore that. “Well, I'm going home. Are you coming?”

Sherlock glanced around. “What happened to your man? Surely even you can't have messed that up already.”

John gritted his teeth. “He had to go home – he's got an early start tomorrow. I've got his number though. I'm hoping to score a date.”

Sherlock looked disgusted. “A date?” he repeated.

John ignored him. “Look, are you coming home now or not?”

“I am,” said Sherlock. “I just need to text Jim and inform him that he was wrong.”

John opened his mouth to ask about what, and then shut it again without speaking. When it came to Jim, he was almost certainly better off not knowing.

“Uh,” said the man. “Do you want me to come back with you?”

Sherlock gave him a look that said he'd forgotten he was there. “No, no,” he said impatiently. “I've finished with you now.”

The man scowled at him but Sherlock was already distracted by his phone, so he just stalked off instead.

John sighed. “Is a bit of politeness really going to kill you?”

Sherlock made a face. “Yes,” he said with conviction. He put his phone away. “Done. Time to go.”

He set off for the exit with his usual confident stride and John scurried to keep up, wondering why Sherlock didn't get punched in the face more often.

 

****

 

The murder that Greg was investigating was on the BBC website the next day. John looked at the picture of the victim and frowned.

“Hey, Sherlock,” he said, angling his screen so that Sherlock could see it. “Didn't you sleep with him as well? Not that long ago?”

Sherlock glanced up from his own laptop, frowned for a second and then nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You told me I should be polite to him the next morning, and then he was rude to you. Name began with R. Or T.”

John frowned. “Richard,” he remembered in a rush. “Jesus, Sherlock! Don't you think it's becoming a pattern? Surely you should at least tell Greg?”

Sherlock shrugged without much interest. “You can, if you think it matters,” he said.

John let out a long breath and did just that. The reply from Greg was about as concerned as Sherlock seemed to be.

 _All that proves is that all the victims were gay and living in London, which we already knew. Still, I'll keep it in mind._

John waited until the evening to text Sean. He was sitting back on the sofa, sated after eating far too much pizza and trying to ignore Sherlock's frantic typing as he updated his blog with whatever he and Jim had got up to last night.

 _How were the lions?_

The reply came a second later, so fast that John barely even had time to put his phone down. _Very majestic. My niece was enthralled. What are you up to?_

“Which DVD are we on?” Sherlock asked, getting up to look at John's shelves.

John abandoned his phone in order to leap up and protect his DVDs. “Don't touch them,” he said. “I'll get it.”

Sherlock stepped back with an amused look. “I'm hardly going to do anything to them whilst you're sitting right there.”

John spared him a glare as he found the right DVD. “I never want to sit down to Day Of The Daleks again and be confronted by BDSM military porn instead,” he said. He wasn't sure what had pained him more – the corporal punishments being handed out, or the lack of research into the modern army structure.

“That was when we first moved in together,” Sherlock reminded him, sitting down again as John put the DVD in. “I understand your boundaries better now.”

“What, that you can get away with almost anything as long as you leave my DVDs alone?” asked John, settling down with the remote. _And my gun,_ he thought, but he wasn't going to open that can of worms again.

Sherlock beamed. “Precisely,” he said. “You really are an ideal flatmate.”

“It's a shame I'll never be able to say the same about you,” said John, picking up his phone again.

“You're never bored,” Sherlock pointed out, as if that was all anyone could want from a flatmate. John contented himself with a snort as he replied to Sean.

 _I'm just watching Doctor Who with Sherlock. I'm a bit of a fan of quiet Sunday evenings._

He'd hesitated over whether to put Doctor Who or just leave it vaguely at 'a DVD', but Sean was bound to find out sooner or later that he was a bit of a geek about it. Besides, sci-fi was meant to be cool now, and it could be worse. He could be a Trekkie.

 _Me too. I'm still at my sister's, but I think I'm going to head home soon and have my own quiet Sunday evening. Which Doctor are you watching? Tennant was my favourite._

John felt his eye twitch. A fan of the new Doctor Who. Well, nobody was perfect, he supposed. You had to make allowances for these things.

 

****

 

Sean kept texting John all that week. He was an estate agent, and his little comments about some of his clients made John grin more than once. They managed to find time to meet for lunch on Thursday, and John took the chance to ask him out on a proper date the following night. Sean said yes with rather more eagerness than John thought he meant to show. After a year of putting up with Sherlock's general attitude that everything was dull and only sex was worth any form of enthusiasm, it was refreshing to be with someone whose genuine pleasure at getting to spend time with John was obvious.

Sherlock went into a sulk when he found out John was going out without him on a Friday night.

“It's just one night,” said John, putting the finishing touches to his hair while Sherlock scowled at him from the bathroom doorway. “I'll be coming out tomorrow night, and it's not as if you really need me there.”

“Not the point,” said Sherlock. “You're meant to come with me on Fridays.”

John glared at him in the mirror. “I'm not your servant,” he said crossly. “If I want to go on a date with a nice guy, you don't get to be pissed off about it. I'd have thought you'd be pleased – I might even get laid tonight.”

Sherlock looked him over. “Not wearing that you won't.”

John glanced down at his clothes and frowned. It had been longer than he cared to remember since he'd had to get dressed for a date, and he wasn't really confident that he'd managed to nail it. Perhaps it was finally time to take advantage of Sherlock's expertise.

He turned around. “Okay, genius,” he said. “What should I be wearing?”

Sherlock's face lit up.

When John met up with Sean an hour later, he was wearing clothes that he hadn't really known he had and that he half-suspected Sherlock had sneaked into his wardrobe at some stage before he'd given up on trying to remedy John's dress sense. He felt a bit uncomfortable in them, really, but the look on Sean's face when he saw him was worth it.

“Wow,” he said, “just when I thought you couldn't get any hotter.” Then he turned a faint shade of pink and winced. “I'm sorry,” he apologised. “I don't know how I keep coming out with these things. I'll try and stop.”

John grinned and took his hand. “It's okay, I really don't mind,” he said. “You're looking good tonight as well.”

The date went pretty well after that, although John didn't get his shag. They left it with a pretty satisfying snog and a bit of a grope though, so he was confident that he'd get one next time. And that there'd be a next time – Sean was funny and more than a little adorable, even if John did find himself drifting off into wondering what Sherlock was up to at certain points in the conversation when Sean got into an overly long anecdote about work.

He was home before Sherlock, which wasn't really a surprise, so he took himself off to bed, where he tried hard to think about Sean rather than Sherlock while he wanked off.

 

****

 

The next morning when John stumbled downstairs to find his tea, there was a man sitting on their sofa, clutching at a blanket and staring blankly at the wall.

“Morning,” said John, and he jumped, looking around with an almost terrified expression.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“John. Sherlock's flatmate,” said John.

“Right,” said the man, glancing at Sherlock's closed bedroom door and then at the clock. “Is he- do you think he'll be up soon?”

“Probably not,” said John. “And,” he added as gently as he could, “he probably won't be all that interested in you when he is up.”

The man looked more relieved than upset by that. “Right,” he said. “Okay.” He couldn't seem to keep his eyes off Sherlock's door though, and John frowned. This seemed a bit extreme, even for a morning-after-Sherlock reaction.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yes,” said the man in a very unconvincing voice. “I just- It was very intense.”

There was a beep from John's mobile and the man flinched, then stood up. “I should go,” he said. “Tell Sherlock-” He paused, looking as if whatever was behind his eyes was disrupting his train of thought. “Actually, don't tell him anything at all. Don't even mention me.”

He grabbed up his shoes and left the flat without putting them on, running down the stairs as if something was chasing him. John watched him go, wondering what the hell Sherlock had got up to now, and then checked his phone. The message was from Sean.

 _Had a great time last night. I hope we can do it again soon._

John smiled and replied before he'd even put the kettle on.

 _Me too. We're going out tonight, probably to the Criterion again. Want to come along?_

He set about making his tea, and Sherlock emerged from his bedroom as if summoned by the prospect of getting John to make him some as well. He slumped at the kitchen table without bothering with words and John got another mug out automatically.

“What the hell did you do to that poor guy?” he asked, then hurriedly added, “Without going into too many details.” Sherlock had never quite understood the concept of 'too much information'.

Sherlock shrugged one shoulder. “An experiment,” he said. “I don't think I'll be repeating it. It was Jim's idea.”

Well, that explained rather too much. John's phone beeped again before he could respond, and he glanced at it.

 _Sorry, got a mate's birthday or I totally would. How about coming over for a quiet Sunday evening instead?_

John let himself think about that for a moment, but Sunday evenings were when he got to hang out with Sherlock without anything or anyone else intruding. And the next episode of Doctor Who they were due to watch was one of his favourites – well, it was in his top twenty, anyway. Possibly top fifteen, depending on how he was feeling.

 _Bit of a standing arrangement with Sherlock, sorry. I can do Monday, though._

Sherlock gave John a once-over as he handed him his tea. “I'd ask how successful your evening was, but I can already tell you didn't get that shag you were angling for. And after I dressed you too – either you really messed it up, or he's got some embarrassing sexual secret.”

John scowled at him. “It was great,” he said. “We had an excellent time. We just decided not to rush into anything just yet.”

“You mean, he decided,” corrected Sherlock, looking disturbingly smug and post-coital. “You're probably better off – any sex with him is bound to be pretty dull. You can tell from his haircut."

John glared, but was saved from having to answer by his phone.

 _Monday would be okay. I'll cook, if you want to come over?_

John let himself smirk. Everyone knew what 'come over for dinner' really meant. He was definitely going to get laid on Monday.

 _Sounds wonderful. I'll bring some beer._

Sherlock made a disgusted noise, presumably aimed at John's facial expression, took his tea and swept off back to his bedroom. John didn't bother looking up to watch him go.

 

****

 

John did get laid on Monday. And it wasn't dull at all – maybe a little generic, but not everyone had memorised the gay Kama Sutra by the time they were eighteen. He stayed for a while afterwards, enjoying the chance to be close to someone, although he carefully blocked the word 'cuddling' from his mind. In the end, though, he had to get up and go home. He had an early shift at work the next day, and there was no way he was going to get up early enough to go all the way home and change before it.

When he got in, Sherlock was settled in his chair, plucking idly at the strings of his violin, and Jim was on the sofa. They both turned around and gave him scrutinising looks.

Sherlock smirked. “I told you so.”

“Oh, Johnny,” said Jim in a voice that managed to be both patronising and commiserating. “Was that really it?”

John did glare at him then. “Shut up,” he snapped out. “It's none of your bloody business.”

Jim raised an eyebrow, as if shocked and horrified by John's reaction, and turned back to Sherlock to exchange an amused look.

Sherlock, however, was copying John's glare. “I'm sure he did the best he could with what he had to work with,” he said.

John wasn't sure how to take that defence of him – after all, it hadn't been exactly bad sex, and how the hell did they bloody know what it had been like, anyway?

Sherlock turned his attention back to him. “At least that's done with now,” he said. “No need to keep wasting your time and attention on him now you've finally had sex.”

John blinked at him. “I wasn't doing it just for one shag,” he said. “That's not how relationships work! I enjoy spending time with him – I'm going to see him again on Wednesday. Sex isn't the be-all and end-all, you know.”

Sherlock looked confused. “Yes, it is,” he argued. “What other point could there be?”

“He's right,” agreed Jim.

“The way you two view sex is seriously unhealthy,” replied John. “If I was a psychologist, I'd be asking you all kinds of probing questions about your senses of self-worth.”

“Well, thank god you're not,” said Sherlock, plucking absently at a violin string. “My self-worth is just fine, thank you.”

“And questions aren't the kind of probing we like,” said Jim with a wink.

John gave up and went to bed. Some people just couldn't be helped.

 

****

 

John took Sean to dinner on Wednesday night and endured another two hours of Tales From The Estate Agent's before he was finally able to shut him up with a long snog and a suggestion that they go back to Sean's place.

“Yours is closer,” Sean pointed out. “And I haven't seen it.”

John made a face. “Sherlock's in tonight,” he said. “Trust me, you don't want to have sex anywhere near him – he's likely to give you a list of recommendations for improvement the next morning.”

“Sherlock again,” said Sean exasperatedly. “Do you have any idea how often you mention him?”

 _I bet it's not half as often as you mention your job,_ thought John, but he wasn't going to say that and risk his chance at a shag tonight slipping out of his grasp. “Sorry,” he said instead. “He's just a large part of my life, which is why I'd quite like to keep him out of my sex life if at all possible.”

Which was a lie, of course – what John really wanted was to let Sherlock as deeply into his sex life as he could, so that there was no room for anyone else, but that was about as likely to happen as frogs raining from the sky, so he'd settle for not having a running commentary instead.

“Come on,” he said as persuasively as he could, sliding an arm around Sean's waist. “Your place isn't that much further.”

Sean let out a short sigh, but let it go. “Alright, then,” he said.

John did his best not to mention Sherlock after that, which was easy enough once they'd made it to Sean's bed. No stretch of the imagination would let him pretend that Sean was Sherlock; they were in completely different leagues.

 

****

 

He didn't have work the next day until the afternoon, so he stayed at Sean's overnight, enjoying the chance to wake up with someone beside him and indulge in some morning-after antics. Once they'd sat down to breakfast, though, Sean started talking about what his day at work was going to be like and John found himself thinking of reasons to leave as soon as possible.

When he got home, Sherlock was already dressed and pulling on his coat. He looked John over, then let out a gentle sigh. “Oh, John,” he said. “How long are you going to keep this up? Surely you can see that it's a form of masochism?”

Thank god they hadn't come back here last night. “Shut up,” said John. “You've spent long enough whining that I need to get laid, now that I am you don't get to comment on it.”

“I do if you're going about it all wrong. You really could do so much better, you know.”

John scowled. “No, I don't know,” he said grumpily. “Sean's fine. Leave it alone.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “Fine. A ringing endorsement.” He left it at that though, thankfully, grabbing his scarf off the back of his chair and knotting it around his neck.

“Where are you off to this early?” asked John. “Please tell me you're not doing a study into how the time of day affects a shag.”

“No,” said Sherlock, “but that's actually not such a bad idea. I'm going to Molly's – she just got a new delivery in, and she promised me first look. Apparently there's a new style of anal beads, but they sound to me just like the ones from last year, repackaged. I shall have to examine them to be sure, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed John, trying to suppress the image of Sherlock 'examining' anal beads that sprang instantly to mind.

“Did you want to come?” Sherlock asked, pausing for a moment as he headed for the door.

“No, thanks,” said John. “I'm good for anal beads, I think. I'm going to make tea.”

Sherlock looked for a brief moment as if he was never going to understand the ludicrousness of John's priorities. “Suit yourself. I'll be back in a couple of hours, probably.”

“Have fun,” said John as he left, then headed for the kitchen. He definitely needed tea now.

 

****

 

It turned out that the anal beads were different enough to keep Sherlock busy for a few days, categorising the precise differences. John kept up with texting Sean, but didn't actually see him again until Friday lunchtime, when they ate a sandwich together in the park before they had to go back to work. Sean's conversation was still largely work-related, and John wondered why he hadn't realised just how dull being an estate agent was before now. He found himself mentioning Sherlock rather more often than he probably should in retaliation, and when they left each other it was only with a peck on the cheek. John walked back to the surgery wondering if he should bother trying one more date, or if he should just end it now.

He went out with Sherlock that night and Greg managed to find time to come as well. From the bags under his eyes and the look that passed over his face when John asked him how it was going, the murder enquiry was still largely stalled.

“It gives me such confidence in the police force to know how well you're dealing with this,” said Sherlock, and John trod on his foot.

Greg scowled at him. “I'd like to see you do better,” he snapped. “This bastard has left us hardly any evidence. It's not like bloody Agatha Christie, you know, with improbable clues lying all over the place. Half the time there just isn't enough information.”

“You're not looking in the right places,” said Sherlock, and for a moment John thought Greg was going to punch him.

“You're an arrogant prick,” he snarled instead and strode away in the direction of the bar.

John glared at Sherlock. “Was that really necessary?” he asked.

Sherlock looked surprised, as if he had no idea what all the fuss was about. “I was merely pointing out the obvious,” he said.

John gave up on him and went to join Greg at the bar. “Sorry,” he said.

Greg glanced at him. “Why do you always feel the urge to apologise for him?” he asked. “He's not your responsibility, you know.”

John shrugged awkwardly. “I don't know. Just usually makes everything easier if someone apologises, I suppose, and it's never going to be him.”

Greg ordered a double whisky from the bartender. “Don't you ever wonder what you're doing, hanging about with him?” he asked, and John could tell from the tone of his voice that he was really asking himself.

“No,” he said truthfully, and then wondered why that was.

“No, me neither,” said Greg, sounding depressed about the whole thing.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, ruminating on the mystery of why anyone would willingly associate with Sherlock Holmes, and John wondered if Greg's depression was catching.

“Jesus, I think I need one of those as well now,” he said, and gestured at the bartender for a whisky.

“Sorry,” said Greg. “It's been one of those weeks.”

“How's Mycroft?” John asked.

Greg made a face. “Busy,” he said. “And when he's not, I am. I'm remembering why I stopped trying to make relationships work in favour of one-night-stands – they're just so bloody difficult to timetable in around a murder investigation.”

“Or around Sherlock,” said John, thinking of Sean. He really was going to have to end that soon – it wasn't fair to keep leading him on when it was clear it was going nowhere. He took a large gulp of his whisky. He hated breaking up with people.

“God, we really are a pair,” said Greg.

John snorted. “At least you're getting paid to investigate murders rather than get shagged. All I get from Sherlock is the occasional cup of tea.”

“I'm not sure I'd drink a cup of tea that he'd made,” said Greg.

John grimaced. “There were a few unfortunate incidents when I first moved in,” he said, “before I made it clear that adulterating a man's tea is just not on. Turns out that he can be taught, with the right incentive – damage to his violin is a good one, or unexpected surprises in his bed when he's trying to get laid.”

“I'll drink to that,” said Greg, and they clinked glasses and drank. He swirled his whisky in the glass for a moment or two, then asked, “I take you two still haven't- you know.”

“No,” said John shortly.

Greg looked thoughtful. “You know, I've been thinking about that. Maybe he's saving you for his old age.”

John gave him an incredulous look. “What?”

“Well, Sherlock's not an idiot. He can't think he's going to be able to live like he does forever – he's going to get too old to pick guys up in clubs eventually. Maybe he's keeping you for his retirement.”

“Wow,” said John. “There's really flattering, thanks Greg.” He took another long drink.

Greg rolled his eyes. “Don't give me any of that false pride crap,” he said. “I just meant that he might have a plan to give a relationship a go once he's too old for all this,” he said, waving his glass vaguely around to indicate the club. “And you'd be the obvious choice to make that work with – I can't imagine anyone else putting up with him for long once the afterglow had worn off.”

John thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, no,” he said. “I'm pretty sure he hasn't thought ahead that far, or even considered for a moment that he might not always be able to get any guy he wants without even really trying. And if he has, then he's got a whole load of choices that are better than me.”

Greg shrugged. “If you say so,” he said. “It's just a theory. Got to have something to think about that isn't gruesome murders, or I'd go nuts.”

“Think about trying to find time for Mycroft instead,” suggested John. “Sherlock and I are fine. I wouldn't expect someone like him to want to shag someone like me anyway.”

Greg gave him an odd, frowning look, but before he could say anything, Sherlock arrived, insinuating himself between the two of them as if he'd been there the whole time.

“I've completed my experiment on the acoustics in the toilet cubicles here,” he announced. “The third one from the right has the best reverberations, and the one on the far left is the best one if you want to attempt to go unnoticed.”

“Good to know,” said John.

“I'll be publishing the exact details of each one on my blog tomorrow,” Sherlock added.

“Something to look forward to,” said Greg gravely. John had to take a sip of his drink to keep himself from laughing.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if only just aware he was being mocked. “It's vital information,” he pointed out. “Some of the members of my forum have been asking for the results of this experiment for weeks.”

“Of course they have,” said John. Most of the members of the forum on The Science Of Seduction were members of The Twink Army, and all of them treated anything and everything Sherlock said as if it was the word of God.

Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance. “Come and dance,” he commanded, and disappeared.

John sighed and downed his drink. “Coming?” he asked Greg.

Greg shook his head. “Nah, think I'm going to need a couple more of these first,” he said, gesturing to his glass.

John nodded and headed off after Sherlock.

 

****

 

Greg had more than a couple more. Within two hours he was drunker than John had ever seen him, leaning against the bar and scowling at anyone who came close as if they were to blame for all the world's problems.

“It's too close to home, is the problem,” he confessed to John, slumping sideways until John was propping him up almost as much as the bar. “This,” he waved around at the club, which upset his balance and made him wobble alarmingly, “this is mine. My place to not be a bloody policeman in. And this bastard is ruining it – coming into it and killing people and there's nothing I can do to stop it.”

“You'll get a breakthrough sooner or later,” said John as encouragingly as he could, wondering where the hell Sherlock had fucked off to, and how he was going to get Greg home on his own.

“Later,” said Greg. “Too much later, probably. How many more men do you think will die first?” He looked around at the crowd. “One of these men. Him?” he gestured at a near-by bloke. “What about him? Or him?” The last one he pointed at was actually a woman, albeit a reasonably masculine-looking one.

“Maybe we should get you home,” John suggested. “You should get some sleep. Things will seem better in the morning.” Unlikely, given the monster hangover that Greg was going to have, but there wasn't much he could say that wasn't an empty platitude.

“Unnecessary,” said a new voice. “I will take care of him from here.” John looked up to see Mycroft standing there, looking incredibly out-of-place dressed in a three-piece suit and holding an umbrella. How the hell had he got the bouncers to let him in with that?

“Mycroft!” said Greg, sounding genuinely pleased. He let go of John and lurched forward to embrace Mycroft in a hug. “What a great surprise.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft tightly, holding himself still under the hug, and then gently pulling himself free. “Now, let's get you home to bed, shall we?”

“Bed,” repeated Greg and his face lit up with what were clearly very dirty thoughts. “Oh yes.”

“Do you need a hand?” John asked, and Mycroft spared him a glance.

“No, thank you, Doctor,” he said politely. “I have him well in hand.” He seemed to as well – somehow he was able to manage both the umbrella and a good portion of Greg's weight as they turned to go. However, before they quite made it away, Sherlock appeared.

“Mycroft,” he growled, glaring at his brother. “This is my place. Get out.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “So possessive,” he noted. “Really, Sherlock, I am merely endeavouring to help a friend home, is there any need for this antagonism?”

Sherlock's eyes flicked rapidly between Greg and Mycroft, and then his face lit up like the cat that had got the cream. “Friend?” he repeated archly.

A faint frown crossed Mycroft's face. “Do not get involved in things you do not understand,” he said. Then his eyes flicked, oddly, to John. “Unless you think you might have some insight into such a situation?”

Sherlock's scowl returned. “Of course not,” he said. “Get out, Mycroft. And text me next time you come down here so that I can avoid you.”

Mycroft's eyes flicked around the club. “I hardly think I'll be making it a habit to visit this establishment,” he said, as if he was looking around a sticky-floored, shabby student hang-out rather than one of London's nicer gay clubs. Compared to the Diogenes, it probably did seem like a student hang-out.

He left without any more comment and Sherlock glared after him. “Interfering prat,” he muttered.

“He and Greg seem pretty happy,” commented John, watching the way that Greg's arm had encircled Mycroft's waist as they headed for the door.

Sherlock's glare deepened. “Greg has an incomprehensible taste in men,” he pronounced.

John ignored his grumpiness and thought about how much he'd like to have someone who'd come and get him when he got drunk, and take him home to bed. Maybe he was being too hasty about this thing with Sean – he was a nice guy, after all, and it wasn't as if there were hoards of men flocking to John. Sean's work stories weren't that bad, and it wasn't as if John had much to talk about besides the surgery and Sherlock. Maybe they could make it work after all – he'd text him tomorrow and see if he wanted to come out with them in the evening. It'd be good to dance with someone who didn't disappear as soon as they saw someone they wanted to shag.

He and Sherlock danced a bit more, but John could tell that now his cubicle acoustics experiment was over, Sherlock was getting bored and antsy. He was glancing around with increasing dissatisfaction and John started mentally counting how long it was before he got an outburst about the dullness of the available men, and the complete failure of the London gay scene to provide any interesting challenges.

He didn't get it because instead Jim turned up, hanging at the edge of the dance floor and grinning like a shark. Sherlock spotted him and immediately went over, clearly hoping that he had some insane plan that might make things more interesting – using the rather special Sherlock version of the word 'interesting'.

John debated whether or not he really wanted to join them for a moment, and then saw Molly approach them and sighed. If he didn't go over, they were likely to say something unforgivable to her.

He got over to them just in time to hear Sherlock announce, “Of course I can pull any man in here. Don't be an idiot, Jim – no one here's a real challenge.”

Oh, god. This was not going to end well at all.

Jim's eyes were shining with an unholy look of glee, and John could almost see the train wreck approaching.

“No one?” repeated Molly. She looked around. “Wow, I wish I had your confidence.”

Sherlock gave her a disparagingly look. “If you did, you wouldn't spend all your time in gay clubs, hiding from men who might actually consider you a viable partner.”

Molly went pink and looked down at the floor.

“This is the game, then,” said Jim, bouncing with excitement. “If you can't pull someone who I pick out – and I mean 'pull' in the old-fashioned, take-them-home-and-shag-them sense, then you come back to mine, and I shag you.”

Sherlock frowned. “I don't have sex in other people's homes.”

Jim sighed in an exaggerated manner. “And that's why it's the forfeit,” he said. “Besides, you're missing out – I've got some bits of equipment that you wouldn't believe.”

“And when I win?” Sherlock asked.

Jim shrugged. “I don't know. A smug feeling of superiority? A chance to cherish the look of surprise on my face?”

The problem was, John thought as he watched Sherlock glance around the club one more time, a smug feeling of superiority was really all Sherlock wanted out of life.

“No women,” Sherlock specified. Molly gave a tiny, hurt sigh that John hoped he was the only one to hear.

Jim made a disgusted face. “Of course not.”

“And no one I've already shagged,” added Sherlock.

Jim rolled his eyes. “Picky, picky,” he said. “I can accommodate that, though. Are you in?” Sherlock nodded and Jim beamed. “Excellent! In that case,” he started looking around, running his eyes over the men around them. He pointed his finger at the crowd, not stopping on anywhere, “Eeeny, meeny, miny...”he chanted, then spun around and pointed straight at John. “Mo.”

“What?” said John.

“Oh,” said Molly, her eyes widening as she looked at John.

“I choose you, Johnny-chu!” said Jim. “Should be easy enough, right, Sherlock?”

“I'm seeing someone,” protested John.

Jim rolled his eyes. “As if anyone here thinks that's going to last the weekend. Besides, Sherlock never specified a single man.”

Sherlock hadn't said a word, or reacted in any way. His face was a blank slate.

“So, how about it, Sherlock?” said Jim, his grin growing even more manic. “What kind of moves would you put on Johnny-boy to get him into bed?”

John felt a hot ball of something – shame, or embarrassment, or possibly anticipation – sinking into his stomach. What would he do if Sherlock actually went through with this? Would he let him shag him for tonight just to keep him out of Jim's clutches? Could he bring himself to indulge in something that sordid and impersonal? More to the point, did he really think he'd be able to say no to whatever proposition Sherlock came up with? The heat in his belly was definitely at least part want, but he felt sick as well.

Sherlock didn't even look at John. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said scornfully. “I'm not going to have sex with John.”

John almost flinched at the cold tone of his voice, but managed to keep himself holding steady through the stab of pain and rejection. Stupid, he should have known Sherlock would say that.

“You're forfeiting?” asked Jim. “Without even trying? Oh, Sherlock, I thought better of you – where's that competitive edge I love?”

Sherlock ignored his mocking tone. “I'm not going back to yours now, though,” he said. “Still got things to do. I'll meet you outside at 2.” He turned and marched away, still without glancing at John.

“Wow,” said Molly in a quiet voice. She looked at John. “Have you really never slept with him? I thought everyone had.”

John let out a long, careful breath. “I'm going to get a drink,” he announced and left before he could punch Jim's smug face.

He was barely at the bar for two minutes before he got a text. He pulled his phone out assuming it would be from Sherlock – an explanation maybe, or even an apology, or a 'let's get the hell out of here before Jim tries to collect his winnings'. Instead, it was from Sean.

 _I've had a lot of fun the last couple of weeks, but I don't really think it's going anywhere. I'm sorry, you're a great bloke, but it's just not working._

Fantastic, dumped by text, just to round off a truly awesome evening. John ordered a whisky, downed it, and then went home before anything else bad happened.

 

****

 

The next morning, John was still feeling shit. He lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and trying to bring himself to get up and start the day. He wondered what it said about him that he spent more time lingering on the tone of Sherlock's voice as he'd rejected John than on the break-up with Sean.

Eventually he roused himself and made it downstairs, only to find that Sherlock hadn't made it home yet. Probably still being screwed by Jim, John thought glumly as he put the kettle on. After all, there was all that _equipment_. All John had to offer was his penis, and that was clearly of no interest to anyone.

He scowled at himself. Wallowing in self-pity wasn't really constructive and, really, what had he expected? If Sherlock had wanted to shag John, he'd had hundreds, thousands of chances since they'd moved in together. And did he really want to be just another notch on Sherlock's bedpost? A chance to get one over Jim? If they had shagged last night, it was probable that John would have been feeling even worse this morning after being used and chucked out like every other guy Sherlock had ever slept with.

He was being ridiculous and he knew it, but he couldn't really help it. Besides, it felt good to be the one indulging in a childish sulk for once.

He took his tea and slumped on the sofa, then put on Planet Of Fire. The Doctor always made everything better.

When Sherlock came in, he looked as if he hadn't slept at all. He blinked at the screen for a moment, then frowned.

“You're upset,” he said. “This is the one you watch when you're upset.”

John had about twenty answers lined up in response to that, but he bit them all of in favour of, “Sean dumped me.”

Getting into why Sherlock's rejection had left John wanting to wrap himself in the comfort of creaking cardboard sets and aliens made out of whatever rubbish the props department had left over from last week was just asking for trouble, really. The last thing John wanted was probing questions about whether or not he actually wanted Sherlock to have shagged him or not.

Sherlock's frown failed to clear up. “You were thinking of breaking it off yourself. Surely this has just saved you the effort?”

“Not the point,” said John. “It was the closest thing to a relationship that I've had in- god, in over a year, and it fizzled out without even making it to the two-week mark.”

“Two weeks is far too long to waste on one person,” said Sherlock, and John thought for the thousandth time that sometimes it really was as if they were speaking a different language. “And if you'd just pay some attention to my work, you'd have a much higher success rate.”

“I'm not looking for a success rate,” said John. “I'm looking for someone to care about.”

“Care about?” repeated Sherlock, as if it was a phrase that he'd never heard before.

John shook his head tiredly. “I don't expect you to understand,” he said. “Just leave it.”

Sherlock stood where he was for a moment or two, as if he was trying to think of something appropriate to say and failing. John ignored him in favour of watching The Master burn, and eventually he swept off to his bedroom.

 

****

 

When Sherlock made his usual dramatic entrance from his bedroom that night, dressed to kill, John was settled on the sofa with his laptop, trying to reply to an email from Harry.

Sherlock stopped dead when he saw him. “You're not ready!”

“I'm not going,” countered John. He'd spent most of the day thinking about it, thinking about how he spent all his time following Sherlock around just for snippets of his attention, and how pathetic it was getting. If he put a bit of distance between them and managed to claim a life that wasn't second-hand from Sherlock but actually his own, maybe he'd be able to kill off some of the feelings for his flatmate that were getting increasingly out-of-control. That way, things like Sherlock's declaration last night wouldn't hurt as much, and John might actually be able to find someone to be with who didn't come second to Sherlock every single time.

There was a shocked silence. “Of course you're coming,” said Sherlock. “It's a Saturday night. You've only not come out three times – twice when you were ill, and once when you were sulking over the thing with the drag queen and the banana.”

“I'm not really in the mood,” said John. “Sorry. I hope you have a good time, though.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Is this about Sean?” he asked. “No, it can't be, you didn't care about him that much.”

John felt the familiar scowl twist over his face, and took a deep breath. Getting in an argument was not going to help. He needed to remain calm and rational, or Sherlock would talk him into coming out anyway. “It's not about Sean,” he said. “It's about me. I'm not in the mood for a night of strangers and awkward pick-up lines, and dancing on sticky floors.”

“You love dancing,” Sherlock pointed out.

Well, that was true, but John if he was going to manage to force his feelings for Sherlock into friendship only, then that was one of the things that was going to have to get sacrificed. “I'm getting a bit old for it,” he said. “I think I'm just going to stay in. Maybe watch a Bond film.”

Sherlock made a disgusted face. John had tried to get him interested in James Bond when they'd first started living together, but he'd watched two films before announcing that Bond's entire pick-up technique was flawed, and that 75% of his chat-up lines shouldn't have worked. After that he'd refused to watch a single second more and John had taken to only indulging when Sherlock was out.

“This doesn't make any sense,” he said. “There's something more going on.”

John sighed. “There's nothing,” he said. “I'm just tired and want a night in for a change.”

Sherlock left still looking disgruntled, and John wasn't completely surprised to get a text from him only a few minutes later.

 _If you come out, I'll help you pull someone better than Sean. It'll be easy. SH_

 _I'm fine here, thanks._

There was no reply, but about an hour later, John's phone rang. Caller ID said it was Greg rather than Sherlock, but John knew better than to trust that. Sherlock had a terrible habit of stealing other people's phones.

“Hello?” he said as he picked up.

“Evening, John.” It was Greg.

John frowned. There was no reason for Greg to call him, not unless Sherlock had done something that meant he need John's assistance. “Has something happened?” he asked. “Oh, god, he hasn't been arrested again, has he?”

Greg laughed. “No, mate, nothing like that,” he said. John let himself relax slightly. “Just wondered if you were okay, that's all.”

“I'm fine,” said John. “What's he been saying? I'm just staying home for once – no big deal.”

“He hasn't said anything,” said Greg. “When I asked where you were, he just glared at me and ordered a double shot of vodka.”

John frowned. “He's drinking?” he asked. Sherlock almost never drank alcohol, claiming that it impaired his pulling ability and befuddled his brain, both things that he counted as catastrophes of the worst kind.

“Oh yeah,” said Greg. “I think he and Jim are having a competition of some kind. Look, John, did something happen?”

“No,” said John. “I told him, I just don't feel like going out tonight – nothing to do with him.”

“Right,” said Greg, and he didn't sound completely convinced. “Molly told me what happened last night.”

Of course she had. “About Sean?” John said, without much hope.

“No,” said Greg. “Well, yes, that as well, but she told me about the bet with Jim, and Sherlock's response.”

John let out a sigh. “Any chance we could just not talk about this?”

“Not really,” said Greg. “Look, John, it's probably not really my place, but it seems like you don't really have anyone to talk to, and. Well.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “It's tough, hearing something like that from someone you're in love with.”

There was a long silence. John thought about denying it and just shutting down the conversation as quickly as possible, but the truth was that Greg was right and knew it. No amount of denial was going to convince him otherwise.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “That's true, isn't it?” He took a deep breath. “But it's not as if I didn't already know he wasn't going to sleep with me.”

“It's different to hear it out loud, though,” said Greg softly.

“Yeah,” acknowledged John quietly. There was a pause, then he made a face to himself at how ridiculous he was being. “Look, it doesn't matter. If we were any other, normal set of best mates, no one would think twice about him not wanting to sleep with me.”

“You're not any other set of mates, though,” said Greg. “You chose to be friends with Sherlock Holmes, and I don't think 'normal' has ever applied to him. Him not wanting to sleep with someone is almost unprecedented.”

“It doesn't matter,” repeated John, in a firmer voice. “Just leave it, Greg, really. It's not important.”

“Well, all right,” said Greg. “Just thought I'd check in with you, anyway.”

“Thanks, but I'm fine,” said John. “You have a good night.”

“Oh, I will,” said Greg with great satisfaction. “I'm only staying out until Mycroft is finished with some club business, then I'm going back to his.”

“Oh, finally managed to find some time when neither of you are busy?” asked John.

“Yeah,” said Greg, and John could hear the smirk in his voice. “And we're going to spend it getting busy. He's told me to bring an overnight bag.”

“Then I hope you have a really, really good night,” said John.

They said their goodbyes, and John got back to James Bond.

 

****

 

John was just getting to the dramatic final showdown when he was interrupted again, this time by Sherlock arriving home. He frowned up at the clock – it wasn't even midnight yet.

“What's up?” he asked. “Did you forget your condoms or something?”

Sherlock gave him a scathing look. “Don't be ridiculous, John. That would never happen.” He stalked into the room and threw himself down into his armchair.

“Right,” said John. “Of course not. Then why are you home so early? Please tell me you haven't shagged everyone in the Criterion tonight already.”

Sherlock ignored his question in favour of asking one of his own. “Are you upset that I wouldn't have sex with you last night when Jim suggested it?”

John blanched. “No,” he said. “Of course not.”

“Right,” said Sherlock, nodding to himself. “Good.”

He didn't say anything else for a while. He just sat back in his chair with his fingers steepled and a deep-thinking look on his face. John went back to watching a supervillain's secret base blow up after a few minutes - there was no point in trying to get answers out of Sherlock when he was in this mood.

The base blew up, the villain died, then Bond and the female lead ended up in a romantic clinch just before the credits began to roll. Sherlock was silent throughout the entire thing, not even bothering to grumble at the physically impossible parts, but when John flicked off the telly and got up to put the DVD away, he sat forward, as if jolted out of his reverie.

“Greg thinks I need to explain myself,” he said.

“About what?” asked John.

“About why I haven't had sex with you,” said Sherlock.

John stared at him. “There's really no need,” he said hurriedly. “I get it.”

“I'm not sure you do,” said Sherlock. “It's possible that Greg was right, and if he wasn't – well, clarification of my position won't hurt anything, surely?”

Well, that really depended on what he came out with. “Greg said you'd been drinking,” said John. “Maybe this should wait until you're sober.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes theatrically. “Don't be ridiculous, John, I didn't have nearly enough to affect me. It got dull far too quickly.” He gestured at John's armchair. “Sit down.”

John was struck by a sudden urge just to go up to his room instead, barricade the door and hide, but instead he sighed, put the DVD down and settled into his chair. “This is unnecessary,” he said. “Greg's never explained to me why he hasn't slept with me – none of my friends ever have.”

“No, but Greg isn't me,” said Sherlock. “I think we both know that my methods are different to those of your other friends. I have had sex with every other gay man of my acquaintance – apart from Mycroft, of course, and a handful who do not meet my standards - and I intend to go on doing so. It's the only thing worth knowing about most people, and once I have discovered all there is to know about their sexual habits and responses, I lose interest.”

“You realise how unhealthy that sounds, right?” said John, wishing he'd had a few beers while watching telly so that this conversation might be slightly cushioned.

Sherlock waved that away. “Unimportant. I decided to focus on this area many years ago, and there's been no reason to abandon it since. It holds my attention like precious little else does. This is lot less unhealthy than the drugs were.”

John scowled, but reluctantly nodded. “Right, fine,” he said. “I do already know this, you know.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know, I'm just establishing the necessary background,” he said.

John raised an eyebrow. “This is all a bit elaborate. You could just say 'John, I don't want to shag you,' and then we can have tea.”

“But I do want to shag you,” said Sherlock. John felt his face begin to flush, and cleared his throat. He hadn't been expecting that.

“That's the point,” continued Sherlock. “I want to have sex with everyone – I want the data. It's not that I find you undesirable, it's the other factors involved, factors that don't come into play in any other circumstance.”

“Because we're friends, and we live together,” said John. “And it might get awkward. It's fine, Sherlock, really. I know this.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I have had sex with every other flatmate I've ever had,” he said. “The only other person who might be considered my friend is Greg, who I have also had sex with.” He paused and then added, almost reluctantly. “And Jim, I suppose.”

John didn't want to think about Jim right now, or about what his role in Sherlock's life might be. “You haven't slept with Mrs. Hudson,” he pointed out.

Sherlock made a disgusted face. “Women don't count,” he said. “And Mrs. Hudson is our landlady, not our flatmate. Look, John, I had sex with all those people in the first few days of knowing them. I started to associate with Greg afterwards because I knew I needed someone to go out with – a man who goes clubbing on his own begins to get a reputation for being a bit odd, and Greg seemed like the right sort of person to be able to cope with hanging out with me on occasion. When I met you, though, I thought I'd try an experiment.”

“An experiment in not shagging someone while you're trying to convince them to keep living with you despite your distressing habits of leaving sex toys in the bath and playing the violin in the middle of night?” asked John.

“No,” said Sherlock. “An experiment in having sex with someone who actually knew me. I wanted to see if it made a difference to the experience if it was with someone who knew more than the very surface level details about me – and vice versa. I gave myself three months to get to know you, then I was going to have sex with you.”

John stared at him. “You'd never had sex with someone you actually knew?”

Sherlock scowled as if John was missing the point. “I still haven't,” he said. “The experiment backfired.”

“Backfired?” repeated John. “You got to know me then decided you didn't want to sleep with me after all?”

“Pay attention, John,” said Sherlock. “I have already said I want to have sex with you. In fact, I suspect the experiment would yield some extremely interesting results. The problem is that I also became aware that there would be consequences that I am not prepared to accept.”

“Because we're friends, and you don't want it to get awkward,” repeated John. “Like I said, Sherlock, I get it.”

“Partially,” allowed Sherlock. “You view sex differently to me – it is likely you would find it difficult to disassociate it from our friendship, and that you'd be irritated by my attitude towards any encounter between us. That's not it entirely though, John it's – you're important to me, in ways that are unprecedented for me. You hold my attention and interest in all sorts of ways that other people don't – non-sexual ways.”

“So, you don't need to have sex with me because I'm interesting in other ways,” said John. Trying to understand Sherlock's tangled thinking was even more complicated than he'd expected, and he was beginning to wish he had just gone up to his room and hidden from this conversation. Not to mention that finding out exactly how messed up Sherlock's attitude towards sex was was making him wish that he'd studied more psychology as a medical student.

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “No. That's not quite it. It's-” He paused and frowned down at his hands for a while before looking back up at John. “I don't want to have sex with you, and then lose interest, like I have with everyone else.”

“Oh,” said John, blinking. Sherlock liked him too much to sleep with him? Well, that actually made sense in a twisted, Sherlockian way. John felt his thinking shift sideways, and he realised that it wasn't that everyone else got to see a piece of Sherlock that he never would, but that that was the only piece they'd ever get, whereas he got all the rest – all the sarcastic little comments about other people, the evenings spent watching Doctor Who and eating takeaway, the awkward, emotional conversations. Even the bits he could probably live without, like the days-long sulking on the sofa and the frank discussions about his sex-life.

“Right, okay,” he said, letting himself process all that. Sherlock sat back in his chair, apparently satisfied that he'd managed to get his point across.

There was silence for a few minutes, then John cleared his throat. “Tea?” he asked, standing up.

“Please,” said Sherlock, picking up his violin case.

John headed into the kitchen, but paused just before he'd gone through the double doors. “Do you know why I haven't slept with you?” he asked.

Sherlock was already pulling out his violin, but he paused at the question and raised an eyebrow. “Because we're friends, and we live together, and it might get awkward?” he asked.

“Nope,” said John. “It's because I'm still holding out for a Time Lord.”

Sherlock let out a surprised huff of amusement and John smiled to himself as he went to put the kettle on.

 

****

 

He texted Greg just before he went to bed with _Interfering bastard_ , but didn't get a reply until late the next morning.

 _You're welcome. Sorry I didn't reply earlier, been rather distracted by Mycroft. You know how I said Sherlock was everyone's best shag? I'm taking it all back._

 _Smug git,_ replied John. _I wouldn't mention that to Sherlock – he might have an apoplexy._

That Sunday was even lazier than their usual Sundays. John sat down on the sofa with the Sunday Times and a cup of tea when he finally made it out of bed, and then stayed there for the whole afternoon, moving only to get a pen so that he could try and puzzle his way through the crossword. Sherlock emerged after an hour or so and slumped next to him with his laptop, replying to some of the emails that his website had generated.

“Listen to this,” he said. “'Dear Sherlock, I am trying to get the attention of one of the doctors at the hospital I'm a nurse at. How can I be sexy and seductive at a hospital without being unprofessional?'” He snorted. “Idiot. A hospital is one of the easiest places there is to get laid.”

John thought for a moment. “I've spent a lot of time in hospitals, but I don't think I've ever pulled at one,” he said. “Well, unless you count the field hospital, but that's a bit different.”

“True,” said Sherlock, already tapping out a reply that John hoped didn't contain too many insults. “The Army is one of the other easy places to get laid.”

“How would you know?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged. “I stole a uniform and crept onto an Army base a few years ago in order to see.”

John stared at him for a long moment while Sherlock ignored him and kept typing. “Jesus,” he said. “Do you have any idea how much trouble you'd have been in if you'd been caught?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course I wasn't going to be caught,” he said. “Besides, I needed the data.”

There wasn't much John could say to that, so he turned back to his crossword with a disbelieving shake of his head.

Sherlock kept up a running commentary on his emails, little scathing comments that made John laugh. He shifted his position over the course of the afternoon until he was spread out along most of the sofa with his feet tucked under John's leg to keep his toes warm. John thought about telling him to go and put some socks on, but the truth was that he was enjoying the proximity too much.

At around seven they had a brief argument over who should get up and call for the takeaway that John inevitably lost. When he sat back down on the sofa, Sherlock stretched his legs out over his lap. Sherlock's concept of personal space had always been a bit dodgy, but this amount of draping himself over John was a little unusual. John wondered if it had anything to do with last night's conversation, or if Sherlock was just trying to leech some body heat in order to avoid having to get up and find some real clothes.

The doorbell rang about ten minutes later and John poked Sherlock's ankle. “I got up and phoned,” he said. “Your turn to get up.”

“Mrs. Hudson will get it if we wait long enough,” said Sherlock.

John sighed. “She's not our housekeeper, you know. And it's a bit unfair to make her pay for it.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I'll pay her back. Or she can add it to the rent.”

The doorbell rang again. John sighed and started trying to move Sherlock's legs so that he could stand up. Sherlock was resistant to his attempts.

“Stop it,” he said crossly. “I've just got comfortable.”

Mrs. Hudson's door opened downstairs, and footsteps headed in the direction of the front door. John gave up on trying to get free.

“Don't you ever worry that you're going to push her too far and get us evicted?” he asked.

Sherlock looked up in surprise. “Of course not,” he said. “She loves me.”

Sadly, that was true. John gave up on the conversation as footsteps started up the stairs to their flat.

“My wallet is in my coat,” Sherlock shouted down.

“That's wonderful, darling, but you don't need to pay me if you want a good time,” called back an irritatingly familiar voice in a leering tone. Jim came through the door a second later, raising his eyebrows when he saw their position. “Gosh, have I interrupted something? I can leave – or stay and watch, if that's what floats your boat.”

Sherlock glared at him. “We're just sitting,” he said. “What do you want, Jim?”

Jim sauntered into the room and sat down in what was usually John's chair. “I just thought I'd pop by and see how you were. You left in an awful hurry last night – such a hurry that I didn't get the chance to give you this.” He held up a memory stick and Sherlock glanced at it.

“What's that?” he asked.

Jim's smile turned predatory. “The video from Friday night,” he said. “I thought you might like a permanent record. We did have such a very good time.”

Friday night – when Sherlock had gone back to Jim's. “You filmed it?” John asked incredulously, glancing at Sherlock to see what he thought about that, but his face didn't betray any emotion.

“Of course,” said Jim, glancing at John briefly before looking back at Sherlock. “I film all my encounters.”

“And all your partners agree?” asked John.

Jim rolled his eyes as if John was particularly stupid. “I don't ask them,” he said. “What would be the point?”

John scowled. “That's not right,” he said. He looked back at Sherlock. “Did you know he was filming you?”

Sherlock shrugged. “It was obvious enough, once we'd started.”

“That's completely immoral,” said John. “Filming people without them even knowing – that's sick.”

Jim let out a tiny sigh. “You do get worked up so easily,” he said.

“There are lines,” started John, sitting forward and disrupting Sherlock's feet.

“Leave it, John,” said Sherlock. “You're never going to be able to convince him, and I don't particularly care.”

John let out a long breath and sat back, still glaring at Jim. Jim gave him a smirk, then turned his attention to Sherlock.

“What are your plans for tonight? I'm thinking I'll go to a straight club and see if I can convert some men, if you're interested in joining me.”

“I don't go out on Sundays,” said Sherlock.

Jim stared at him. “Not at all?” he asked. “Surely that means your data is incomplete.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I still have data from a few years ago,” he said. “That's good enough.”

Jim made a face. “What are you going to do instead?” he asked, as if he couldn't even begin to comprehend what someone might do if it wasn't going to a club and pulling as many men as possible.

“Watch Doctor Who with John,” said Sherlock.

Jim's face took on an even more disgusted expression. “You can't be serious,” he said.

The doorbell rang again before Sherlock could reply.

“That'll be the takeaway,” said John, lifting Sherlock's feet off his lap and standing up. “I'll get it, or Mrs. Hudson really will lose her temper, but you're still paying.”

“You know where my wallet is,” said Sherlock.

John nodded and went downstairs, glad to get away from Jim. He seemed to get creepier every time he saw him. He wondered if Sherlock didn't see it, or if he was just ignoring it as irrelevant.

It was actually the takeaway man this time. John paid him from Sherlock's wallet and took the food back upstairs, where he met Jim just leaving. Jim gave him a look of pure rage, so full of vicious hatred that John almost took a step backwards to get away from it.

“You think you've got him tied down, don't you?” he hissed. “Well, it's not over yet, and an aging, broken ex-soldier is hardly going to get in my way for long.”

He stormed down the stairs, leaving John gaping after him. Where the hell had that come from? He went back into their flat and asked Sherlock, “What on earth did you say to him?”

Sherlock stood up and took the takeaway from him, setting it down on the table. “Just that I wasn't interested in going out this evening.”

John shook his head and went through to the kitchen to get cutlery. “He's a nutter,” he said. “He threatened me.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Sherlock.

John shook his head. “No idea. Because he's a creepy bastard?” He handed the cutlery to Sherlock and then headed over to his DVD collection, running his hand along the titles until he reached the one they were on.

Sherlock made a vague noise of dissent, but he was already more focussed on the food than the conversation. John gave up in favour of putting the DVD in so he could start on his own food. Jim wasn't worth worrying about, not when there was a lazy evening of Doctor Who to enjoy with Sherlock.


End file.
